#taylor wrote this song for them without knowing so i had to make the tiny tiny adjustment

[pencil-n-pen]

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

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Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. ���Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

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taglist: @mythical-goth @sfotiegiuls @shoyooss @booknerdlife @gratuitous-and-superfluous @got-the-cheese-touch @amysfav @pear-1206 @purplefluffycows @secretisme4 @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @s0mewhereweaknessis0urstrength @twistedkisses @vcnillafairy @labellapeaky @fxiryeon @eddiiiieeee @kalanthra @soniiyi @famouslywaiting @deeninadream @moschinocherries @monaskydancer @bobo-bush @agreeeeeeeeeee @tardis--tea--time

[demigodsanswer]

Fluff, 37, Popstar Annabeth

I will warn that this is another au that will probably never be expanded because a) I know nothing about the lives of popstars and b) I'm not creative enough to come up with pop music or a pop aesthetic for annabeth lmao. But for the purposes of this, musically Annabeth is basically Sabrina Carpenter. Her career isn't based off of Sabrina's, but that's the vibe of the music and her brand.

~

Their anniversary was small this year. They didn't have a lot of money left after moving out to LA. Annabeth was still recording her first album, trying to find the balance between DOA Record's uninspired vision for her (cute, country girl who can get to the real pop music later) with her own vision for her career (pop icon). From Annabeth's perspective, they were just trying to make her the second Taylor Swift, which Annabeth was sure wouldn't work. People would see right through it.

Annabeth had gotten them to see her as more than a sweet, curly haired blonde with a cover of Amy Winehouse's "F Me Pumps." She didn't dare imitate Amy's style or sound. She made the song her own, and the cover was just starting to bring in some small ... very small royalties. She needed the album to come out, to start getting some press, and maybe an opening spot on a major tour or something. Or better, a tour of her own, if the album really went viral.

Percy was a champion. He was working as a waiter at an upscale place, bringing in great tip money that covered most of their rent for right now. They both worked nights, him at the restaurant, her at whatever small gig would have her.

So their anniversary dinner was a breakfast. Percy made pancakes, and she made coffee and mimosas with cheap prosecco.

"I wrote you a song," Annabeth said.

"Really?" Percy's eyes lit up as he saw her reach for her guitar. In her epic quest to not be branded as a Taylor Swift wanna-be, Annabeth hardly picked it up in public or the recording studio anymore. But Percy loved the sound of an acoustic guitar. Her version of Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide," which was just her and her guitar, was still his favorite thing for her to perform. She did it whenever he could make it to a gig. She'd probably play it after her new song.

"Sorry it's not something more tangible," Annabeth said.

But really, what could she ever get him that would communicate how much she loved him? He'd been willing to let her go out to L.A alone if she wanted, sew her wild oats and all that. When his half-hearted attempt to break up with her only made her sob, he clarified: "I just don't want to hold you down."

"You don't hold me down, you lift me up!" She told him through heavy sobs. "You're like God in that one Josh Groban church song!"

Percy had had the audacity to giggle at her then, and she couldn't help it, she laughed too.

"If you really want to break up," Annabeth said, "so you can stay in New York with your family, I'll understand. Just don't you dare suggest it was for my benefit. Nothing about being without you would be for my benefit."

"As long as you're sure," Percy said, "I'd kind of love to go out west for a while. I hear the surfing and the skateboarding is choice."

Still crying, Annabeth nodded and promised that it was.

Their tiny little apartment was far from the beach, and they shared a beat up Prius, so Percy's chances to get to the ocean were slim, since she needed the car to get to recordings. But they were making it work. Twenty-two, broke, hungry, but warm at least in the California sun, and in love still.

She'd done her best to put all of that into the song. She'd taken inspiration from Walden, and West Side Story, and A Midsummer Night's Dream - creating an artistic space for them, where everything was perfect. That place existed, the song tried to suggest, as long as they were together, that place was real for her.

"Wow," Percy said when it was over. "That was really, really beautiful. Are you going to record that?"

Annabeth shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe I'll keep it just for us," she said.

Percy leaned forward, letting the guitar stay between them as he kissed her gently. "I wouldn't mind if you recorded it," he told her. "I like the idea of people knowing that I'm yours."

Annabeth smiled. "Maybe I'll play it for the producers tomorrow," she said. "I hope they don't think it's too Folklore."

"Nah, it's all Annabeth, no Taylor," Percy promised.

The producers kept floating high publicity relationships she could enter, telling her to ditch - or at least hide - the boyfriend. Annabeth had always dug her heals in. "No way," she'd insisted. "It's not like you're married to the guy," had always been Charon's response.

They were only twenty-two. No reason to rush down the aisle. And they weren't rushing. But they did want to. At least, that's what they agreed when they were making their plan to move out here, that they'd get married soon. They'd been together since they were sixteen, best friends for even longer. Plenty of people got married in shorter amounts of time. Just maybe not so young.

Annabeth would be lying if she said she wasn't waiting for him to propose. She'd even eaten her pancakes extra slow, in case he'd hidden the ring in there.

"Do you want your present?" Percy asked.

Annabeth bounced and rested the guitar against the coffee table. "Sure do!"

She was disappointed when he handed her an obviously CD-shaped square, but she smiled anyway.

"Thanks!" Annabeth said, pulling away the wrapping paper (green red, from Christmas). Annabeth had a large collection of pop icons' albums on CD and vinyl. B'Day, Back to Black, Blackout. And those were just some of the Bs. She also had a fair bit of classic rock that Percy had given to her, or just merged his collection with hers. She wasn't sure what album he could have realized she didn't already have.

She recognized the back immediately, seeing that side before the front. It was Gaga's The Fame Monster. It was maybe her favorite album of all time. Which was to say, she had several copies of the album in various forms.

"Thanks baby," she said, trying not to feel totally let down.

Percy took her hand and flipped the album over. Scrawled across the front in gold Sharpie: Lady Gaga.

Annabeth screamed and found herself standing on the couch, before completely tackling him. "Oh my god! How did you get this?"

"Just scoured a few websites and spots in the city," Percy said with a shrug. She caught him picking at the skin around his thumb, a nervous tick of his. "There's a certificate of authenticity in it."

Annabeth popped the CD case open. There was the certificate, and the CD, but there was also a thin, silver ring. Across the top, set in the silver were a small diamond, with two blue sapphires on either side.

Annabeth stared at the ring, holding it delicately between her two fingers, waiting for an explanation, waiting for Percy to say something, or else find out that whoops ... someone had just left this behind and it wasn't --

Percy took the ring from between her fingers and slid off the couch and onto one knee.

"Will you marry me?" Percy asked. "I know the ring's not much, and we don't have a lot, but I --"

"Yes, of course," Annabeth said. "I don't need much, I wouldn't have even needed a ring. But I do like this one."

When Percy slipped it on her finger, it started to feel really real, and before she knew it, she was in tears, slipping off the couch and onto the floor where he was to hug him, kiss him, and press him back onto the dirty carpet.

It was about damn time.

[shruiee]

A little confession at the alter of tumblr.

I stopped writing because I was insecure of my writing. (this is me being honest pls don’t come at me)

A big reason to why I stopped writing; which is honestly my biggest fault— writing for numbers instead of writing for myself. I felt like if I wrote more direct smut then that would make people read my smut and like it then they would read my more thought out pieces.

As it is I was insecure about writing because, one I was writing for the desi representation in my favourite fandoms, and secondly English is my first language but in a weird way. It is the only language I can read write and speak but my verbal understanding of Bangla is far superior as it is my day to day language of communication with my family. So during that whole Bel/Fae attack thing and they started criticizing the wording mistakes in my writing because I don’t have a proof reader just broke me in terms of writing. I started to believe that my writing was indeed as those two girls called it. Pretentious and cringy.

Keeping in mind that I was dealing with personal issues as well so this was just fire over my one happy place. I’m sorry for leaving without a word for nearly a year, I’d get asks in my inbox, amazing ones with desi undertones and also just people checking in. I used to cry sometimes just looking at my inbox because I knew I really wanted to write, I used to have all these ideas for all the asks that were sent but I just couldn’t bring myself to type them out.

I felt like I wasn’t good enough to share this space with some of the most amazing writers I’ve known— also had isssues with but then made up. I felt like I was pretending or a robot writing and then convincing myself that it was good enough to post. With that being said.

This is why I rewrote my first two original series Tears of Gold for Tywin and Yours to Take for Daemyra.

I really want to repost them since I have the original work with me still, I love them so much more than their rewrites that to me I was trying to use big words and get my hand at life changing metaphors instead of just having fun.

But back to the point. I feel like wanting to make numbers and getting greedy about that I started writing things that yes I enjoyed but in root it didn’t represent the kind of fanfiction I wanted to write because I felt like I ended up white washing or gentrifying my reader OC’s or the culture around the fic to fit the standard mold of tumblr fanfictions with tiny skinny girls who’s cheeks go pink because they are fair. I just steered away from what I had set out to do in the fanfic community back in 2022 when I finally decided to use both this account and my Wattpad.

My intentions from the very first fanfiction I wrote with Steve Rogers and Bucky was Desi representation. My main goal in the tumblr space is solely for desi representation and my love for my culture.

In my return now I really want to be focused on providing materials of recognition for desi girls, but also in fandoms like Dune and GOT/HOTD that in truth have influences and direct takes from the desi culture and highlight that as appreciation rather than it being a costume thing.

Also if you are a desi person reading this and want a desi reader fic with your choice of male, if I don’t already know said male. I will fall in love with that male just so I can write you a desi piece so please don’t hesitate to ask.

Here I also want to tag a few people that have encouraged the desi mish mosh biryani I make with our beloved internet Daddies and tooted my horn and just in general have my love and respect!! Some of these people already have some smash hit fics that if you haven’t already read— what are you doing? GO READ THEM NEOWWW! Some of these lovely people are also POC writers who also write for their ethnicities as well so pleaseee check out their content. and Taylor cuz half my fics have her songs as scene music hehe.

@avalyaaa @desigemini24 @themotherofhorses @em-writes-stuff-sometimes @ewanmitchellcrumbs @humanpurposes @khaleesi-the-great @arcielee @two-white-butterflies @joker640 @evattude @neociity @chaosfae-writes @ajthefujoshi @sylasthegrim @taylorswift

Also Shreya Ghosal and Arijit Singh for giving me the power of my ancestors to write a dramatic Bollywood style fanfics.

This is a choice I leave to yall, if your read the original Tears of Gold and Yours to Take— they would still be a little polished and tweaked, because mind your I was 18 at the time and other than my highschool diploma essays I had no experience in creative writing and I feel like I’ve grown a lot since but still. The plots I had and the way I had set up both stories to me are still my favourites over their rewrites

[darkmatilda]

Finally finished the bolter, so here are my comments (yes, I'm always going to do this as a numbered list now it's the only way to categorise my thoughts)

1. I love the bolter (the song) very, very much, and I think the way you tied the lyrics into the plot was really clever. Your description of the feeling she gets when leaving was perfect, and I loved how you tied in the story with the ice

2. Glasses spencer is in my top 3 reid eras (controversially, it ranks higher than boyband reid), and he's just perfect for this fic it makes so much sense

3. I'm an early season criminal minds girl and having elle and Gideon in a fic makes me very happy. I love elle so much she was perfect

4. I'm beginning to think you just like ending fics in a way that leaves people desperate for a part 2? If your planning a part 2 please do and here are my tiny little requests:

○"Splendidly selfish, charmingly helpless, Excellent fun 'til you get to know her" are possibly some of the best taylor swift lines ever and they're from the bolter which is something to take into consideration...

○if you're looking to make a sad part two where they decide to be friends again and he has to watch her go be with other people from a distance 'not strong enough' and 'waiting room' are songs that could be taken into consideration (or phoebe bridgers whole discography)

In summary I loved it, make more song inspired fics and glasses spencer is elite

finally replying to this message bc i had to think through how to answer MAINLY BC YOU GAVE ME SUCH A GENIUS IDEA

i’ll start making annotations to your comments so i don’t miss any of those precious thoughts of yours ❣️

1. while writing this i’ve listened to "the bolter" so many times that if someone woke me up in the middle of the night and told me to sing it, i’d do it effortlessly. I JUST LOVE TAYLOR'S SONGWRITING IN TTPD (i’m a huge fan of taylor’s painful and sad songs bc our mother just knows how to capture those feelings so perfectly, i bow down to loml, the black dog, the prophecy, how did it end...maybe i should write something inspired by those...)

2. glasses spencer and post-prison are my fav tbh 😵‍💫 not a big fan of the boyband era, don’t hate me now pls

3. first season forever in my heart, though i remember wanting to skip ahead bc the later ones seemed more interesting and the fandom was only talking about them...seasons 1&2 don’t get enough credit!

4. i generally have a problem with endings bc I HATE SWEET AND SUGARY ONES, there needs to be at least a hint of pain for the fanfic to stay in your heart longer :> i also love interpreting open endings. even though with the light off was supposed to have an open ending, i caved and wrote (to soothe my and your broken hearts), but this time i don’t plan on doing that, i mean continuing the story from the same point where i ended it (in hotch’s office).

the continuation will be after a time skip where it’s explained that spencer and reader agreed it’d be better to stay friends like they were before AND THIS IS WHERE MY PROBLEM COMES IN

bc i had an idea for the continuation and even started writing (which i’ll explain soon without spoilers ofc) BUT THEN YOU CAME ALONG WITH MUCH BETTER IDEAS

spencer watching her meet others in the same way she met him and realizing he’s not special to her...though ofc it’s not true but he doesn’t know that....god not strong enough would fit SO WELL there

but i don’t really want to end the story on a sad note...i don’t want to end it at all actually bc i had more of an idea for a fanfic series with the same reader that would be connected but in a way where you wouldn’t need to read the previous ones in order

i started writing a fanfic called "alaska nights" where the story takes place some time later (up to a few months, maybe a year) and bau goes to alaska to solve a case and then something starts pulling them together again, eventually they can’t resist and agree that as long as they’re in alaska, they can sleep together, but after that, their relationship will go back to where it was, and bc of that agreement they decide they have to make the most of this pact and visit each other every night 🤗 keeping it a secret from the rest of the team to avoid awkward questions (but queen elle figures it out anyway)

and not to toot my own horn but i really like this idea, but on the other hand, your idea moved me just as much, so here’s my proposal: at the start of december, "alaska nights" will drop (a very light and funny story to let the readers breathe from all the angst...) and then something from spencer’s perspective??? set directly after, showing his pain over their relationship resetting AGAIN, probabably inspired by "not strong enough" but i’m super open to suggestions, i personally love phoebe bridgers too <33

i know i’m repeating myself girl but your engagement seriously moves me, like when i post something, i wait impatiently for a notification from you 😭

[annieintheaair]

I bet you're thinkin' I'm the problem, that leaving me behind would solve 'em, and I know all your deadbeat friends, all raise a glass in your defense.

It's very rare for me to be home on a Thursday evening. Since I had the time today, I skipped my normal 4pm yoga class and attended the Trifecta yoga class at 7pm instead. It's an hour and a half long class that includes some deep stretching, Yoga Nidra, and ends with a sound bath.

Last time I was able to go to that class, I did doze off at one point and felt so good when I woke up and left at the end of class. Today was different, though. Joshua described a place with a waterfall and a large clearing, and as I lay there, picturing this magical place, all I could think about was how words, when put together nicely, can be so beautiful.

Writing has always been my thing. I wrote in journals as a kid and eventually switched to blogs as I got older. The thing is, the wrong words can be used to hurt people, but the right words can change everything. And no words at all can sometimes be the worst of all.

I always used to have something to say. I had such a hard time letting go. When I was talking to my mom the other day about everything that happened, for some reason, I didn't feel as horrible as anyone would expect me to feel. I told my mom that since Dan died, nothing will ever hurt me quite as bad. It has been almost three years without him, and I still cry about it sometimes. My Wednesday yoga instructor, Holly, said one time that her dad told her after her grandparents died that they wouldn't be able to see her from Heaven if she wasn't happy. I try to be happy, and I try to accept the reality of Dan being gone, but it's so hard to just go on, living your life, knowing that there's not even a tiny 1% chance of seeing that person again here on Earth.

I went to see the movie Materialists today, and I was hoping that watching a rom-com would restore me, somehow, to believe in love again. Instead, it made me kind of sad when the main character ended up back with her original love. Not that he didn't seem like a great guy, but part of me just wanted her to move forward with the new guy so I could have that hope, too. In the movie, they talked about why they wanted to be with certain people. They said that it was because that person made them feel valuable. Maybe that's why I loved Dan so much.

In college, Dan needed me a lot. If he was out drinking, he would call me to come pick him up, and even in the middle of the night, I'd get in my car in my pajamas, and pick him up. We didn't have Uber back then, and taxis weren't really a thing in Providence, so I was the taxi/Uber for a lot of my friends.

Dan and I definitely had our fights and more breakups than I can count. Taylor Swift was my girl back in the day when I'd blast her songs to make me feel better. Dan always managed to leave something at my place-- whether it was a hat or a Godfather DVD, and he'd have to come pick it up after our breakup. I always made these special cookies, and I swear by them because we got back together every time. Dan was the one person who never gave up on me, or on us.

Someone who loves you shouldn't be able to walk away so easily. They shouldn't cut you off and leave you in the dark trying to figure out what really happened. Unless I'm missing something, Todd literally ended our relationship because I didn't want him driving us home after drinking. There was no conversation or any actual fight, just his mom yelling at me and chasing me down the street, trying to get Todd to drive me home, when I knew that it was a poor choice for both of us to get in his car after drinking. That's what's so hard about this breakup-- it feels like he didn't love me at all and was looking for excuses to leave. Why would someone agree to move in together and a few hours later decide they hate you?

This breakup literally makes no sense to me, especially since he told Cassie that I was having "an episode," like I'm some sort of crazy person. It's like he forgot that he told me his mom was bipolar before I even met her, and if you want to talk about "having an episode," then that's exactly what was happening to his mom that night, not me. I was the most sober person there that night, and my mom was on the phone with me.

Anyway, I'm hoping to catch a flight early tomorrow morning to go visit my family for the weekend, and for Father's Day, and my birthday. Before I went to yoga tonight, I dropped off the dogs at their sitter, so now it's just me and Cora for the first time ever. Last time the dogs went to their sitter, Todd and I were home with Cora before we left for our cruise. It's nice always having her around.

Well, I'll be lucky if I get three hours of sleep tonight, so I better head to bed.

xoxo

Annie

[kaylaeljwritesthings]

To my Coley Taylor - a CNF piece by Kayla El J

Epigraph: The Miseducation of Cameron Post by Emily M. Danforth is a young-adult fictional novel about Cameron Post, a teenage lesbian, who is sent to conversion therapy after her secret girlfriend Coley Taylor, outs them to Cameron’s conservative christian Aunt Ruth. By twisting the story, Coley Taylor evades getting the same treatment from her own family.

[Trigger warnings for homophobia, religious trauma, forced coming out, SI.]

To my Coley Taylor,

In my second semester of college I called you a snake in one of the first poems I ever wrote, inside of the journal now officially MIA. I remember, even when writing it, how guilty I felt calling you such a thing. It swelled inside my conscience like an overblown balloon seconds away from popping—because I shouldn’t say such a thing about another person. Another woman. …and then I broke down in my third semester of college and wrote another piece kinda like this one, called “Dear Redacted,” where I highlighted how you hurt me when we were teens. Once that was done and read aloud to a crowd of my peers one fateful April night, I stopped feeling guilty for calling you what you are and then I started to feel numb to all things you: a blip in the convoluted timeline of my story, a tiny speck one can only see clearly with a microscope.

But then you came back into my life unannounced four years after you told me I was destined for hell… with an apology, just assuming that I’d welcome you back with open arms… that I’d fold to your longwinded sorry. I hate that you knew me so well. It’s taken me nearly a year since the breakup to truly make sense out of everything you’ve said to me—like you suggesting if our paths cross again maybe it will be different, then you deflecting your feelings, treating me like an experiment. How you’ve started down the path to become a youth pastor, all while ranting to me in DMs about how much a sapphic song about leaving religion changed your life.

I’m no believer of the “you cannot have both” rhetoric, but the specific subsection of the world in which you’re so desperate to fit in, does. So you need to figure that out. And I can assure you that your congregation will eat you alive if you stay right where you are and someone finds out, then outs you—ya know, for the sake of transparency, like you outed me to your parents and friends when we were teens. I completely forgot you did that. Did you forget that too? Way to go memory repression for having my back for so long. But I read The Miseducation of Cameron Post recently, and the part when Coley Taylor outed Cameron Post and twisted the story just enough that Cameron was the only one sent away? It felt oddly familiar to me and at first I couldn’t figure out why.

Then it hit me like a screeching, bloody pileup on I-16. It all came back to me, the way you told me all nonchalant-like that you told your parents I was gay, and when I rightfully questioned that choice… you said you “had to.” I still don’t know how your parents kept from asking my parents, “hey, did you know your daughter’s a queer?” It seems like something they would’ve done. But I talked to my Mom about it, and she told me nothing was ever said, at least not to her. …and I’m not one to bring out the Ouija Board and ask my Dad the same. But Mom assured me that she nor my dearly departed Dad would’ve reacted the same way Aunt Ruth acted in the book—so, I’ve got that going for me.

Its the principle of the deliberate action to out someone—regardless of the mental gymnastics performed to make such a move. Outing people without their consent hurts. It can ruin people’s lives, it can domino effect the kill of the outed, inflicted by someone else or by the outed themself. The way I felt at 17 made all the more sense once I remembered. The anger I’ve felt towards you lately has been so bad. And I’ve forced myself to laugh about how oblivious you appeared to be in the weeks leading up to when I blocked you. If the roles were reversed, you’d hate my guts too. You would.

So all this to say: there’s a part of me that wants to make you feel all the pain I felt back then… and all the pain I still feel at 22. But I won’t, because I value queer lives too much to keep score with you. Still, I think several years down the line I will die angry at you and I hope you can sense that.

— you know who.

[thalys-artcorner]

Finan x Eadith Wedding.

“Do you remember, we were sittin', there by the water? You put your arm around me for the first time You made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter sister You are the best thing, that's ever been mine”

[baby-girl-e]

Christmas Tree Farm

Characters - Iceman x Maverick, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

Summary -  Maverick and Ice have their first Christmas with Bradley after Carole’s death. Just a couple of new dads doing their best to raise a happy kid. 

Word Count - 3.5k

Warnings - Canon- Character deaths; Mentions of period-typical homophobia

A/N - Sorry for the wait on this one, I started it a while ago and then life happened you know? I hope this one is happy and Christmas-y enough for you, I added a sprinkling of fluffy angst because I can’t help myself! This is also my first Kazansky-Mitchell-Bradshaw family fic so let me know what you think!

Without further ado... Christmas Tree Farm based on the song by Taylor Swift

It was the first Christmas that Maverick had Bradley since Carole died. He would’ve taken the kid to his grandparents house but for all that he tried he just couldn’t get in touch with the Bradshaws. Carole’s parents had been dead for longer than he’d known her, but he always knew that Nick’s parents were around and had spoken to them many times before he had died. The number he had for them, that he wrote down at her funeral, was right but he got their machine every time. With no call back he just had to assume they were out of town. He didn’t dare to think it was because they were ignoring him, how could they possibly not want to be with the coolest kid in the universe on Christmas?

So here Maverick was, standing in the middle of Target staring at the coats looking clueless. Bradley had outgrown his last one and Ice had insisted he needed a new one before they went to the Christmas tree farm the next day. He reminded his boyfriend that they still lived in San Diego and it didn’t get far below 50 degrees fahrenheit, especially not in the middle of the day. Ice had lovingly reminded him that not everyone was raised in the midwest and that this kid went from living in Texas to living in California and wasn’t used to the cold. 

“Need some help?” A kind looking lady pushing a shopping cart with what looked to be a kid Bradley’s age next to it, noticed his confused gaze. 

“Oh, um I’m fine I just have no idea what I’m doing here.” He thought he may as well be honest with the stranger.

“How old is the kid? I’ve had a few myself.” 

“He’s uh six.” Wow, time flew. It felt like just yesterday Nick had handed him a tiny bundle that just blinked up at him, unknowingly looking at his future pseudo father. 

“Well then he’s probably the same size as Matty here. What size did you last get him?” He internally winced at that. He didn’t check the size on the one that didn’t fit and he wasn’t the one that bought it for him, Carole was. 

“I don’t know, this is my first year as his dad.” She gave him a weird look and he decided to add more to make himself not sound like a dead-beat. “His parents and I were best friends, his dad died two years ago and his mom this summer. So now he’s mine.” 

She gave him a sad look and boy was he sick of those. It wasn’t her fault, what else was she supposed to do when told that story? It’s the polite thing to do. 

“Oh I’m so sorry. Do you at least have your wife around to help?” He almost laughed. No, but he had an Ice. A boyfriend that stuck by his side through thick and thin and god was he so damn lucky. He didn’t have a wife, but he was better so Maverick found himself agreeing. 

“Yeah I do. She’s usually better at this stuff but she’s working late.” He really had to keep the laughter at bay by referring to Ice as his wife. He couldn’t wait to tell Tom about this later. 

“Well not to worry I can help. Does he look about the same size as Matty?” 

“Yeah I think so. I would’ve brought him but he was just having so much fun at his friends house.” It was actually the Metcalfs but how was he supposed to say he didn’t want to stop listening to Viper explain the mechanics of an F-6? Weird kid. 

“Oh I understand, I won’t shop with the kids if I can help it. He’s usually a size 5-6, a little tip is that they’re sized with the same number as the ages so if they’re average sized then you should be safe. For coats however I always go a size up so that it at least lasts for two seasons. Shoes are kinda similar, but you don’t want to go too big or he’ll trip.” 

Really he should’ve been writing this down, but he’s a pilot for god sake he can remember stuff.

“Oh thank you. I’ll have to remember this for when we need to get him new shoes. I don’t think he will for a while.” 

“Of course, we parents have to stick together. Maybe bring your wife next time so it’s less painless!” He’s one hundred percent sure his ‘wife’ would have wanted to be here today but the Navy didn’t give time off for clothes shopping for the kid you and your secret boyfriend share. Maverick was only here because he wasn’t yet trusted to do the paperwork side of TOP GUN. 

“She’ll be here next time I’m sure. I’m not usually allowed to even do the grocery shopping let alone this. I don’t know why she puts up with me.” He laughed as he said it but it was true. He didn’t feel like he deserved him at times. 

“I’m sure love has something to do with it. Good luck!” And with that the nice stranger left him in the coat aisle gaping. 

Eventually he picks what he thinks might work, a hat and gloves that match, and heads back to their little house. When he gets home he calls Ice to check in and also to see if he’ll pick Bradley up from the Metcalf’s. 

“Kazansky speaking.” Maverick had to stop himself from giggling at his deep voice, it never failed to make him swoon. 

“Hey babe, how’s work?” Pete could hear a sigh of relief over the phone, probably because he’d been expecting it to be a work call.

“It’s killing me baby. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be home free.” The way Tom had drawled through baby was making him sweat. 

“I’ll have dinner ready when you get home if you want to swing by the Metcalfs on your way and grab baby goose?” Viper and his wife had long since found out about their relationship, Pete accidentally using babe in the workplace, but they never bat an eye. After Pete’s inevitable breakdown his fathers former best friend reassured the couple that their secret is safe with him and if they’re comfortable they could come to Sunday dinners with his wife and really be a real couple. Small mercies. 

“Why in god's name is he at the Metcalfs without you?” 

“Because I had to grab something from Carrie after work and Bradley wanted to come. Mike was telling him about some F-6 and it was like pulling teeth getting him to leave. They offered to keep him until you got off so I said yes. I’m telling you Tom our son is so weird.” 

Our son slipped out of his mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was, Pete quite liked the little family he had made for himself. 

“Well that’s because he’s been spending too much time with you. I say we switch places and see which dad he takes after.” It seemed Tom thought it was natural too. Pete didn’t want to erase the kids memory of his real dad, but he also didn’t want him to grow up without one like he did. 

“You’d love that wouldn’t you? Just go get him and get your ass home so I can finally kiss you. I’ve been dying to since you thought it’d be fun to chew on that stupid pen.” The worst part about working with your secret boyfriend was for sure the whole keeping your hands to yourself part. 

“That got you going huh? Maybe I’ll keep it up.” He could practically hear the smirk. Oh god. 

“Not unless you want to be slapped with a DD. Good god I’m hanging up, Love you.” 

“Love you too.” Tom was laughing through his words but then the line went dead. Pete couldn’t help but laugh too. God he loved that man. 

///

About an hour later Pete could hear both keys jingling in the lock and a small six year old voice chattering on about some plane. He was still in the kitchen when the door opened and heard Tom remind Bradley to take off his wet shoes before he came flying in to say hi to him. 

“Pete! Hi!” The little boy was jumping up and down practically begging to be held. 

“Baby goose I just saw you a few hours ago, you can’t have possibly missed me already!” He was hugging Bradley tight as Tom came in and pressed a small peck to Pete’s lips. 

“I don’t care I missed you!” He was wiggling to get down already and Pete obliged. He called out to the boy to go wash up so they could eat and he heard something that sounded like “okay'' before he disappeared to his room. 

Pete shook his head at Tom before striding over to where he was drying his hands. He immediately took his face in his hands and kissed him. Resisting Pete was futile and Tom kissed him back with an urgency he was still getting used to. 

They made a point to not kiss in front of the kid, no more than a small peck, but with him distracted they took advantage of the moment. As they pulled back they mumbled greetings before Pete retreated back to putting dinner onto three plates. 

“Glad you’re home Tom. I missed you.” Tom blushed and set two out of the three plates on the table. 

“And you gave Bradley a hard time for missing you? You’re impossible Pete.” 

He just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t help it.” 

Once they get Bradley downstairs and eating Pete starts to notice Bradley seemed like something’s on his mind. Just picking at his food and being abnormally quiet. Tom picks up on it too because he gives Pete a look before addressing the kid. 

“Everything okay baby goose?” They were already worried about raising him, so anytime something went wrong they were both panicked. 

“Yeah, can I tell you guys something?” He looked up to them with wary eyes and Pete felt his insides freeze. 

“Anything Bradley you know that.” Tom reassured him.

“Well, this morning in class my friends were talking about their dad’s and I don’t know, I just wish I could talk about mine.” They looked at the kid concerned, they knew they’d have to talk about this eventually but Pete wanted to avoid it as much as possible. 

“Well you know you have a dad, he’s just not here.” The kid looks sad still and Pete looks to Tom for some assistance. Tom’s at just as much of a loss.

“I know, but I don’t know how to tell the other kids that. Would it be okay… Maybe…” He didn’t seem to be able to get out the words. Tom stepped in. 

“It’s okay kiddo, take your time.” Neither had been prepared for parenthood, least of all Tom. He had resigned himself to a life without kid’s a long time ago. 

“Do you think it’d be okay if I called you guys dad?” 

Tom looked to Pete, like he did in most situations, and Pete looked pale. He never wanted to replace Nick, but Bradley really did deserve to have a dad. 

“Oh baby goose, of course that’s okay. But you remember what we talked about with Tom right? That people can’t know we love each other like your parents did.” Bradley nods enthusiastically.

“I remember. But I can still call you dad?” Bradley looked so hopeful but not quite so sure of himself. Like he didn’t know that these men would give him their kidney if he asked. 

“Absolutely Bradley. Just as long as you don’t tell people you have two dads, at least for now that’s okay. Tom?” Pete wanted to be sure that he was also okay with it, it’s not like Tom had planned on kids so early into a relationship. 

“It’s okay with me buddy. I’m honored that you see me that way. Now go clean up and we’ll watch a Christmas movie?” 

He nods again and runs up the stairs leaving his dad’s flabbergasted but deliriously happy in the kitchen. They were a real little family and damnit if they weren’t both over the moon about it. 

///

The next day comes quickly, especially when they’re woken up by a little boy jumping on their bed. 

“Dad! Dad! We’re getting a Christmas tree today right?” It seemed Bradley wanted to start calling them dad asap. It might get confusing really fast if he doesn’t find another term to call one of them. 

“We are buddy, but we have to be patient and get decorations for it first. Your dad and I only have a few things.” He tried on the name himself and Pete was rewarded with a glowing Tom even this early in the morning. 

“Okay, I’ll go get ready then. But you need to hurry, not wasting time kissing. Yuck.” He makes a face and collapses into giggles when Tom does exactly what Bradley had requested they not do. 

It takes them record time getting Bradley out the door that day, normally having to stop for about a million things but it seems like the kid moved like lightning when he had something to look forward to. He did look cute all bundled up in his new coat, even if he’d have to take it off the minute he got into the car and into his carseat. 

They went straight to Walmart to find ornaments and lights and were delighted to walk right into them when they walked in the door. Bradley picked out a set of shiny red ones and even found an F-14 one. Perks of living right near a Navy base. 

“Dad! Look, it's the one you fly right?” He had made the mistake of grabbing an F-15 Eagle before and received a long lesson on who had better planes, the Navy or the Air Force. 

“That’s right Bradley, put it in the cart.” He did so and scampered off. Pete leaned in close to Tom to whisper to him after. 

“I hope he finds another name for one of us. We can’t both be dad, I’m already confused as to who the hell he was just talking to.” Tom laughs and nudges Pete along the aisle. 

“I’m sure he will. I wouldn’t mind being called Pops. I’m sure you two can find a joke in there somewhere.” He smiled and winked at Pete before turning towards the ornaments, not missing Pete’s lit up face. 

“I love this so much more already. Ice-Pops. That’s amazing.” Tom was laughing too but slowed when he stumbled upon a first christmas ornament. It was pretty generic looking, a tree with a banner below that stated “Our First Family Christmas 1988”.

“What about this one Pete? I know it’s not our first Christmas but it is as a family.” Pete takes it from his boyfriend to examine it. 

“It’s perfect Tom. I love it. Should we get one to commemorate our first christmas?” He turned to find another generic one and saw the perfect one. A red heart decorated with snow and candy canes, a similar banner but this one stated “Our First Christmas”. 

“I could write 1986 on the back? What do you think? Too obvious?” Tom examined it much like Pete had before placing it in the cart. 

“Anyone who doesn’t know about us will not be invited into the house during Christmas time I assure you.” Tom sounded so sure of himself that Pete left it there. They rarely had guests anyways. 

Eventually they get Bradley to decide on a star and the rest of the trimmings before Tom tells Pete to go out to the car with Bradley while he purchases the items. They wanted to get to the Christmas tree farm within a reasonable timeframe to maybe try and beat the crowds. They both so desperately wanted this to seem as normal as possible and with lots of people around they’d have to go back to pretending to just be wingmen and not lovers. 

As Tom pulled into the lot Bradley was screeching his excitement. “Dad!! Look there it is!!” 

“Which dad are you talking to kiddo?” They just needed some clarification already. 

“Both of you now, but I think I’m going to call Ice pops. You know, like the Ice cream?” He was giggling and Tom had a smug look on his face. It seems like great minds think alike. 

“I love it, baby goose. Let’s go choose our tree shall we?” Bradley was back to screeching and Pete couldn’t unbuckle him fast enough. 

The kid ran into the farm with his dad’s in tow, Tom by the hand, and ran right to the tallest one he could find. 

“This one Pops! This one.” He was jumping now, pointing as he went. 

“Kiddo that won’t fit in our living room, let’s look for a shorter one, yeah?” He re;ented fairly easily for his age and was quickly bounding over to the next one. 

He searched every row, multiple times too, looking for that perfect tree. Pete and Tom just looked on, hoping he’d settle on a decently sized and priced one soon. Eventually he did and it was Tom’s turn to get the attendant to wrap it up for them. 

Sooner rather than later it was strapped to the car and they were on their way home. Once they got there Tom started up on making soup to warm the chilly boy and Pete figured out how to get it set up and looking nice. 

Looking into the living room Tom couldn’t help but tear up. He really never thought that anything like this could ever happen to him, least of all with Pete. When he saw Pete’s plane fall into that flat spin back in 1986 he really thought that was it. That he’d never get the chance to tell Pete how he felt. And moreover, after learning of Nick Bradshaw’s passing he thought Pete would never be the same. 

Later, when Pete had admitted his feelings for him and all seemed right he still had a hard time believing it. Just when he had thought that maybe, just maybe they’d be okay, Carole Bradshaw had followed her husband. This was it, he thought. Pete is going to raise Bradley and Tom was going to become just a past fling, it wasn’t like he was going to have time for a relationship and a kid. But here he was. Watching the love of his life wrap lights around a Christmas tree with a child that calls him ‘Pops’. 

Later after the kid was in bed, tree decorated and Christmas movies watched, he and Pete sat on the couch basking in each other's arms and the glow of the fire. 

“Hey Tom?” Pete was quiet, not because he needed to be but because he didn’t want to disturb the peace they had found. 

“Yeah baby?” Tom was drawing idle patterns on Pete’s arm, also not wanting to disturb the peace. 

“I love you.” It was so simple, but Tom really wasn’t sure he would ever get used to it. 

“I love you too. You know I bought something after you two went out to the car.” It was random but it was in a small bag a couple inches away from him and he couldn’t help himself. 

“Oh yeah?” Pete turned slightly towards his partner and raised him a curious brow. 

Tom pulled the bag towards where they sat and pulled out a small sprig of mistletoe. Pete blushed and shook his head in laughter. 

“Babe, you know you don’t need that to get a kiss right?” He was already inching impossibly closer to Tom, hoping he knew where this was going. 

“I know, I just would like something to remind you. Maybe we can keep it up year round.” He was teasing Pete but it seemed he was growing impatient. He grabbed the plant from Tom and held it above their heads before pulling him into a hard kiss. Tom was kissing back in record time and they sank into it. 

Kissing wasn’t a new concept to them, obviously, but every time they did it never failed to make Tom’s heart flutter. Pete pulled away and set his arm down around Tom. 

They breathed heavily into each other's mouths and Tom broke into a smile. Pete was smiling too by the end and then they were laughing. This was comfortable, this was love. 

“Merry Christmas baby.” Pete had caught his breath enough to squeak the words out. 

“Merry Christmas Pete.” he hoped and prayed this was the standard for the rest of his Christmases. He finally had everything he ever wanted, a family.

[ashitshowforalot]

so i finished speak now taylor’s version, i cried, thoughts and feelings under the cut

1. mine- bro why am i crying??? her vocals are so different bc she doesn’t have her twang 😭 she sounds so pretty though. ‘FOR THE FIRST TIME’

2. sparks fly- still makes me want to jump and dance around but her vocals are more present if that makes sense??? like it used to blend together for but now i mostly hear taylor. god her voice is so much mature now.

3. back to december- oh hello bell i didn’t realize you were there. okay i’m gonna cry again bc of this song. “I MISS YOUR TAN SKIN YOUR SWEET SMILE”

4. speak now- oh she sounds so pretty already. it’s still so dreamy in this song 😭 “ you wish it was me ☺️ don’t you😏” HER LAUGH OH MY GOD

5. dear john- bro she sounds like she’s gonna cry in the beginning of this, it’s gonna make me cry. oh god 32 year old taylor singing about what happened to 19 year old taylor. go the way i never realized she blames herself until after the bridge “i should’ve know” into “you should’ve know” because he was older HE should’ve known.

6. mean- okay banjo!!! she’s still so cute, i love you mean, forever in my heart 💜 okay tiny ity bitty twang in this song, she’s having fun and i love it.

7. the story of us- okay the guitar is leaning more pop ish than the alternative kind it was leaning towards in the original, not bad i can still bop to it but i’ll miss the guitar riffs, you can hear her little smile on “next chapter”. “LIKE ITS KILLING ME YEAH” aidhsjkshdj “the end” yes taylor

8. never grow up- oh okay, yeah i’m gonna cry. i cried too much to type anything

9. enchanted- oh she’s still enchanting lol, so dreamy oh my god. i will be screaming this in the car actually. oh it actually absolutely amazing.

10. better than revenge-oh i love her already, she did change the lyrics 😔, it slaps but i will hold a candle for the original lyrics because they are so fun to scream misogamy be damn. other than the lyric change she’s absolutely amazing, HER RIFF OH MY GOD, the mocking lyrics, i love them

11. innocent-how hard was this to re record this knowing that this person would continue to hurt her after she had forgiven them. “32 and still growing up now” brb gotta go scream.

12. haunted-YES OH MY GOD THE DRAMA OF THIS SONG, ooo the echoing is fun, the breaths ahkfsh i love all the little things about this album. genuinely one of my favorites from the original and tv holds the same place in my heart. her vocals give me life

13. last kiss- oh god that first beat still makes my heart drop. okay i am going to cry again. tiny twang again. we lost shaky breathe but the song is still so sad even without it.

14. long live-my favorite song to date actually and i might cry. it’s still so good 😭 god and to know so many people who knew her when she wrote this still know her and support her. thinking about her guitarist has been with her for so long and this song is for the people like him and for us and i just i-

15. ours- ours is such a cutesy song, i love her she deserves a kiss on the forehead. kicking my feet and giggling. her laugh again 😭

16. superman-i love you superman you are such a fun song people forget about you, got me dancing and having a fun time, ignoring that it’s probably about j**n m****r.

17. electric touch-our first vault song!!!! oh wow she’s different, she’s so speak now though, oh fallout boy is so fun on this song, taylor has now claimed the time 8:05 lol, i hear the fob influences but the song is still so taylor

18. when emma falls in love- ooo piano she’s fun, oh taylor girl what emma are we referring to babes, when emma falls in love is cute though, not my favorite vault song though, not a skip let’s be clear

19. i can see you- oh, she’s fun, she different, oh my god who are you???? oh she’s rising in ranks so fast, oh my god i love her so much “ i could you up against the wall with me” TAYLOR GIRL, i am scandalized

20. castles crumbling- hi hayley i love you, taylor girl are you okay? nothing new 1.0?, castles crumbling was not what i thought it was, i think i might cry actually, don’t worry hayley got a verse lol, anyways taylor girl are you okay??? anti hero 1.0? bro???

21. foolish one- oh okay happy beat sad lyrics, taylor said take your anti delulu pills or this song is about you, “how could i not see the signs” taylor???? babes what happened??? “he just wasn’t the one” oh okay that hurt a little a lot

22. timeless- oh good old taylor and a guitar, oh no taylor sweetheart i don’t think you would’ve been timeless, why does this hurt, oh this feels so bittersweet

anyways favorite base 16 song is long love and haunted

favorite vault song is i can see you

[aliwritesfic]

The Night Shift part 11 (F!Reader x Frankie Morales)

WC: 3.3k

AN: Yall I'm so sorry this took ages to be updated, my laptop screen broke and the repair place had to wait over a week for a new one, I hope the end of this part makes up for it <3 Parts will also be slower to come out as I'm starting my next semester of uni on Monday and that's going to take up a large chunk of my time, but I'm still going to try and put out a new part at least once a week

Spotify

Part 1 Part 12 (coming soon) Masterlist

Friday arrived far too quickly for Frankie’s liking. So quickly he had gotten himself into a routine of being with you, and it felt like it was being ripped away from him. Of course, he knew that it would happen, he hadn’t deluded himself into thinking it wouldn’t, but still . . . still he had grown so used to your presence that when it was finally time to “get your shit from that ugly ass motherfucker” (Will’s words, not his), he felt almost depressed.

You were perched on his couch when he woke up late Friday morning, a cup of steaming coffee clutched in your hand, your gaze fixed absently on a point on the wall. He called your name gently, not wanting to scare you. You blinked a couple times, as if coming out of a trance. He knew the look well.

“Didn’t sleep?” he poured himself a cup and sat down next to you. You shook your head.

“Not great. I think an hour, maybe. But like, really shitty sleep.”

“Not fully asleep but not fully awake?” Frankie suggested, having become very accustomed to the feeling during his military time. You nodded, giving him a tired smile. He understood your exhaustion. You had spent every waking moment stressed about the move, online shopping to replace the things that you were leaving at Kurt’s, and then stressing some more. You had picked up the keys on Wednesday and Frankie had gone with you to check the place out.

It was a bright, airy place, seven floors up with huge windows and a tiny balcony off the living area. Frankie had noticed your eyes shining as you took it all in, almost like you couldn’t believe it was yours. You had wiped away a tear, taking in the view of the lake by the apartment complex.

Frankie had come with his measuring tape and notebook from his mechanic days. He measured each room, each alcove where a piece of furniture would sit, and wrote them down diligently with a messy scrawl on a page labelled with your name.

When you had gotten back to his place, you set to work writing down a list of what was yours and what you needed to replace. At the top of that list was a bed, heavily underlined and circled.

“The bed’s mine, technically,” you explained as you clicked on a display photo of a wrought iron bed frame, “but he can keep it. I want a fresh start, and I think I need a new bed to do that.”

“Makes sense,” Frankie said sitting down beside you, “is that the one you’re going with?”

You had nodded, clicking add to cart. The store had next day delivery, and for a small fee would even build the bed for you. You opted for this, despite Frankie’s protests.

“Please, you’re doing so much already, and putting my whole bed together for me . . . it feels like a very unfair trade,” you told him firmly. Once again, your stubbornness had won over. Frankie, rather grudgingly, had to admit to himself that the delivery people were much quicker than he would’ve been at assembling the bed frame, especially after he had taken a quick look at the instructions.

He wasn’t about to tell you that though.

It was almost midday when a knock sounded on his door, followed by the three men he called brothers piling into his kitchen. You emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed and a shy smile on your face. It struck Frankie that this was the first time you were meeting these guys, truly meeting them without the inclusion of alcohol.

“You’re all really excellent for helping me with this,” you said fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt. You had opted for long sleeves throughout the whole week. “Sorry you have to give up your Friday for this.”

Benny was the first one to make a move. He strode forward and enveloped you in a tight hug. Frankie could see the initial shock on your face before it was replaced by a hesitant kind of happiness.

“You like Taylor Swift?” he asked, and you nodded. Benny craned his neck to look at Frankie. “She’s riding with me, if that’s okay?” he turned back to you and you nodded again. Benny grinned and whispered something in your ear, causing you to snort out a laugh.

Santi stood beside Frankie and pressed an envelope into his hands.

“The photo,” he explained. “Again, remember I have several copies, so if you plan on destroying this one, imagine it like a hydra.” Frankie rolled his eyes and put the envelope in his back pocket. You were too busy chatting with Benny and Will to notice, and he was glad. He wanted to surprise you with the photo when you needed it.

Benny and Will had taken a particular soft spot for you since Frankie gave them the bare-bones rundown of how Kurt had treated you. Frankie noticed it now, in how Will stood like your own personal bodyguard, in how Benny had slung his arm around your shoulders, like you were old friends. Frankie felt the briefest flash of jealousy before he stamped it down. Just because he couldn’t – wouldn’t – touch you, didn’t mean no one else could.

“Quit staring Fish, you look like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes turn to hearts,” Santi muttered, elbowing Frankie in the ribs. Frankie elbowed him back, annoyed.

“Alright, gang! Let’s get this show on the road!” Will clapped his hands together. Benny raised an incredulous brow at his brother.

“What are you, fifty?” He turned to you, linking his arm through yours. “Don’t worry, Fish, I’ll drive extra carefully.”

Frankie felt envious of Benny then, even though he had basically had a week straight with you. But knowing it was coming to an end, that tonight you’d be sleeping at your own place, instead of just down the hall. Well, it made him almost sad. He pushed that aside though and forced himself to be happy for you.

As he drove to your old apartment, everyone else following behind, he focused a little too hard on the radio, just to give his mind something to do. A newsreader was talking about how a quick-thinking pilot had landed a plane in a field after something went horrifically wrong with the engines. Zero casualties, minor injuries. People were already calling for the pilot to be given a medal.

Maybe I should renew my licence, Frankie thought. He didn’t want to be a commercial pilot, or a hero of any kind, although the uniforms were nice. But it couldn’t hurt to have it.

He pulled up outside the building, gripping the steering wheel tightly. This was it.

Will and Santi parked behind him, but Benny’s ridiculously lifted pickup was nowhere to be seen. Frankie squinted towards the end of the street, knowing he couldn’t have gotten lost. He had you with him.

Ten minutes passed with no sign of you. “Where the fuck are they?” Frankie grumbled, now worried that you and Benny had gotten into a car accident. He trusted him, but Benny was the worst driver of all of them. He pulled out his phone to text you but was interrupted.

“That’s his truck,” Will said, pointing to the end of the street, where Benny’s truck had just pulled in. The sound of heavy bass reached them before the truck did. As Benny pulled up outside the apartment, Frankie recognised the song as Gimme More by Britney Spears.

“Sorry we’re late,” you called, clambering out of the truck, a tall plastic cup in your hand. “We stopped for frappes.” Benny sipped innocently at his, giving Frankie a look that said he needed to speak with him.

“Where’s my fuckin’ frappe,” Santi grumbled, looking envious. Benny grinned and handed his over to Santi for a sip.

You stood, looking up at the building, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Guess we better go up. I sent him a text telling him I was doing this today, but he didn’t reply, so I don’t know if he’ll be here.”

“Want us to jump him if he is?” Benny offered, but you shook your head.

“Not right away,” you said, “but if he starts up maybe slap him around a little.” Frankie knew you were joking, but the look in your eyes was one of fear. He took your hand gently and lowered his head to talk to you.

“You can wait out here if you want,” he murmured, “we’ve got the list of what we need to get.” You squeezed his hand and shook your head. Yours was cold and slightly clammy in his own, but he didn’t mind.

“No, I need to do this.” You said. Frankie nodded, understanding. You didn’t need to explain the nitty gritty of your reasoning, all he needed was for you to know that you had him, in whatever way you needed.

You kept a firm grip on his hand as you lead the way upstairs to your old apartment, only letting go when you stood outside the front door, fumbling in your bag for your keys.

At first, the apartment seemed empty of life. All the lights were off, the curtains closed, and the place was eerily silent. You stepped over the threshold, followed by the rest of the boys, who immediately got to work.

As it turned out, Kurt wasn’t there. He remained gone for a good half hour while the boys carried your heavier shit down to their trucks. You set to work stuffing the rest of your clothes into plastic trash bags you had picked up from the grocery store.

Benny joined Frankie in carrying a loveseat downstairs.

“Fish, I need to tell ya,” Benny started, grunting as they made a turn. “She’s as into you as you are her.” Frankie shook his head.

“Don’t do this, man.”

“I’m being serious. I talked to her in the truck. She didn’t say it outright, but you should’a seen the look on her face when I talked about you.” Benny waggled his eyebrows. “And her friend Sara agrees, she’s ‘smitten’ with you. Whatever the fuck smitten means. If you want my advice-”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“-Go for it. Tonight, once we’re all gone. Shoot your shot my guy. Don’t waste anymore fucking time. Sara said she wasn’t even sad about the breakup, like she’s been checked out mentally for months now.”

“Wait, did Sara tell you about me punching Kurt?”

“All I’m saying is, she likes you a lot, you like her a lot, don’t waste this.” Frankie mulled over what Benny was saying. There had been more than a few moments that week when he had spied you looking at him and wondered . . . but each time he had pushed the thought out his head. Old insecurities, respect for you, held him back.

Historically, Frankie had never been very good at telling when someone was into him. He could be literally balls deep and he’d still be questioning it. Even sometimes with Portia, he’d wonder if she really felt the same way he did. Santi, who knew Frankie as a kid, chalked it up to Frankie having a rough go of puberty, not growing into his features until almost the end of high school. By then, whenever someone had showed even a slight bit of interest, Frankie had dismissed it as a cruel joke. Unfortunately, those insecurities had followed him deep into adulthood.

The mood in the apartment had become relaxed, all the heavier stuff, like your couch, TV, furniture, and fridge had been taken care of, and now all that was left was to gather all the small shit. Frankie found you in the bathroom, unscrewing the shower head. You tossed it into a box filled with other bathroom items, the loud clang making him grimace. He opened his mouth to speak to you when yelling from the front room interrupted him.

Your face fell instantly, going from focused to almost afraid. Your eyes met Frankie’s own, and he reached out to touch your arm. It’s okay the touch said, he can’t do anything to you. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and walked out with Frankie to the commotion.

Kurt was being held back with a single hand on his chest by a bored looking Will, screaming a string of expletives and struggling to land any kind of hit on Will, Santi stood behind Kurt, ready to jump in if needed. Benny was hunched over, clutching his sides in laughter. Kurt finally caught sight of you, standing a little in front of Frankie.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” His tone made you wince slightly, but Frankie was proud of the way you didn’t shrink away.

“I told you this was happening today, Kurtis, it was your choice to come back while we were here,” you said calmly.

“You’re taking all my shit!”

“I paid for every single thing I’m taking,” you said. “It’s not my fault you never put anything of monetary value into this place.” You stepped forward, so you were facing Kurt head on, but still behind Will. “You need to calm down, you’re acting like a fucking child.”

“I’M ACTING LIKE A CHILD?”

“Yes. You are. You’ve acted like one almost our entire relationship. So you can either calm down, leave and come back later, or my friends will force you to calm down.”

“Are you threatening me?” Kurt spat.

“Yes. You’ve already been smacked down before, any one of these guys would love to be the one to do it again.”

“I’d like to see them fucking try!” Kurt pivoted and lunged at Benny. Big mistake. With a simple, yet effective, punch to the head, Kurt was out cold on the floor. Benny looked up, almost apologetic. You grinned at him, silent laughter shaking your shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to hit that hard,” Benny said, flexing his fist. “But I also did.”

Santi dragged Kurt’s unconscious body to the now empty living room, carefully posing him so he was curled in the foetal position, sucking on his thumb.

“He actually arrived at the perfect time,” you said to Frankie, standing back beside him. “Cause we’re done here.”

“We’ve got everything?” Santi called, overhearing you. You nodded.

“We’re finally done here.”

~*~

Frankie was glad you had decided to ride with him back to your new place. You were buzzing with a new energy, unable to keep a nervous grin off your face. You didn’t speak on the drive to your new place, but Frankie hoped he wasn’t reading into how much closer you sat, your thighs almost brushing his. Benny had gotten into his head, he knew, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation.

You were the most beautiful person he had met, both inside and out, and the very idea that you could like him the way he liked you . . . well fuck, it didn’t seem feasible. But then he thought back to the previous week spent with you, and maybe it wasn’t such a ludicrous idea after all.

He pulled up at your new building, parking in the spot designated for you. You turned to him, unlatching your seatbelt as you did.

“Frankie . . .” you started, then leant over and pulled him into a tight hug. Frankie felt like everything you wanted to say was in that hug. You pulled back slightly, so your faces were almost touching. He could’ve done it then, he fucking should have done it. Crossed that miniscule amount of space between you. But then the moment passed, and you pulled away entirely.

You climbed out of the truck, moving to the back to grab some of the garbage bags that held the smaller stuff. Frankie’s phone buzzed in the cupholder, a message from Will in the group chat.

Ironhead: Pussy

Frankie turned and saw Will staring at him. Fuck offhe mouthed. Will flipped him off with a grin. The effort of getting all your stuff up to your new place was considerably easier than it had been the first time around. For one, your new place had an elevator. So even though they had to take turns using it, it was worlds above struggling up seven flights of stairs. The mood was also improved by the fact Will had knocked Kurt out cold. Frankie had begun to wonder if that had become the main highlight of your day.

It was well into the night by the time everything was in its new place. Benny and Will flopped down onto your loveseat, drinking beers that you had kept in an ice chest you had brought in yesterday just for this. You sat on the floor, drinking a fruity vodka thing that Frankie thought looked and smelt like a melted popsicle. The balcony door was open, a breeze that held the promise of summer drifted through.

“Where’s Santi?” You asked looking around.

“He had to get something from the truck,” Will said. As if on cue, which if Frankie knew these boys as well as he did, it was, Santi burst through the door, one arm stretched wide, the other behind his back.

“My dearest,” Santi began, and Frankie groaned inwardly, “over this past day, the gentlemen and I have grown quite fond of you.” What is this, regency England? Frankie rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer. “And as such, we wanted to present you with a housewarming gift.” With that, he whipped his arm around and held out a vase of sunflowers. Your face softened, then broke into a grin.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you pushed yourself up and pulled Santi into a hug, motioning for Will and Benny to join. You hugged the three men as tight as you could, smiling at Frankie over the tops of their shoulders. Frankie smiled back, raising his beer in a silent toast.

You placed the flowers on the kitchen counter, facing them toward the window. It was just past ten when the three boys left, Benny carrying the ice chest along with the promise to bring it back as soon as he could. It seemed like it was only moments before only you and Frankie remained.

Frankie’s phone buzzed.

Benny: Don’t fuck this up.

Frankie saw you move outside onto the balcony, leaning against the railing, silhouetted by silver moonlight, your face turned towards the breeze that coasted off the lake. Everyone else was gone, and he wondered if he didn’t take this chance, would he ever?

He moved to stand next to you, standing so close your arms were touching. His heart felt like it was caught in his throat. He murmured your name.

“Frankie,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of his beating heart. Before he could stop himself, chicken out like he had before, he closed the distance between you. One hand cupping your warm cheek, the other encircling your waist, he tilted his head down until his lips met yours.

It was everything.

Your lips were soft against his, hesitant at first, but then you were wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. You tasted like candy and those sugary drinks you insisted on bringing. Your touch was like tiny jolts of electricity shooting down his spine.

Fuck.

His tongue darted against your bottom lip, and you let him in almost hungrily. Frankie deepened the kiss, wondering just why the everloving fuck he waited this long.

He whispered your name, the word like poetry on his lips. You were poetry, you were art, you were every beautiful thing wrapped up into one person. He was in love with you.

Taglist: @hnt-escape @sharkbait77 @1800-fight-me @annathewitch @darnitdraco @frankiecatfish @punkerthanpascal @nakhudanyx @gracie7209 @quica-quica-quica @pintsizemama @phoenix-of-loki @procrastinationstationnation

[thgreatestblue]

you're alive (in my head)

➜ pairing: sanemi shinazugawa x gn!reader ➜ warnings: angst, mention of dead character, manga spoilers, fluff. ➜ words: 7.6k ➜ a/n: i had the idea for this fic while listening to marjorie by taylor swift. it’s such a beautiful and touching song, i definitely recommend it. this one turned out quite big but anyway, happy holidays! ➜ ao3

summary: The man looks at you again, between white lashes that were still wet from his tears. He was a broken man whose pieces you didn't know how to put it back together. A puzzle you found yourself staring at without any clue of what form it should shape. It doesn't mean you weren't going to try anyway.

I.  

The piano would always call your name at the old restaurant your parents owned. It was an old and ugly thing; battered through time, but it would make the same wonderful sounds your grandmother used to do when playing it. That’s how you learned how to play in the first place. And how the tradition of having a musician in the family kept going, much for your parents' disdain.

You worked at your parents’ restaurant as a waitress. It was a family legacy you didn't quite like; working at the old restaurant for the rest of your life was not what you had in mind while growing up. It wasnt that you didn't like cooking and talking with strangers — it was quite a pleasant interaction that you had refined throughout the years. 

However, you wanted bigger things for your life. That’s why playing piano and writing songs were something you would always look forward to when the restaurant wasn't full. At some point, people started to demand to see you play, asking when they would hear your songs again; and that was enough to put a little bit of confidence inside your very cowardly heart. 

Each time you played, slender fingers touching keys like they were made for it; it would always take you to another place, one that you didn't need to step down the stage and go back to real life. Your mother once told you and your grandmother were too alike, and even though she meant it as a bad thing, you held onto that as the best compliment you had ever received.

Tonight, you were too nervous and focused on playing a song that you had written for your long-passed grandmother; it had taken an entire month to come up with lyrics and a melody that felt just like her. After all, it was her birthday. There were so many things you wished you had said, you wished you had done. But instead of mourning, you decided to pour your feelings into a song — it’s been 5 years already, all the wounds that were open had already healed, but that didn't mean they didn't itch from time to time. 

As you sit down on the worn out bench, the floor of the improvised stage cracks under your feet. Your father had built for you after realizing that you weren't going to stop playing it, even if he put the piano outside in the rain. Your mother had convinced him, after all, you were still doing your job and the customers liked to hear live music, there was no hurt in letting you play. 

You can feel eyes on you already; there was always an expectation every time you appeared to play the piano, and you would always try to meet them. Always staying up till late, trying to come up with new lyrics, trying new sounds. Even though your life was pretty boring, you still managed to write about interesting elements; situations you could only imagine, like living a fancy life, or loving someone. 

While you arrange the papers that you had written the song on the piano’s rack — not that you needed, it was just to put your mind at ease, that you weren't going to screw this up — you take a long look at the crowd; most of them still eating and talking to each other. You knew their attention would only fall on you when you started playing. 

However, there was someone looking directly at you. You knew that face all too well by now; it was impossible to miss the hair as white as the driven snow, or the scars that crossed his face that would make many people shrink away, scared by the intimidating aura he carried with him. However, you knew it wasn't the case; his eyes — even though you didn't have the courage to stare for too long — were gentle.

The man would come to the restaurant every now and then. Your cousin who worked at the bar, would always try to talk to him, but the man would always be short and sharp; preferring paying attention to his food, and mostly to alcohol which he would drink until it was time to close.

It wasn’t something unreal, since there were a lot of people who did the same. But what made him so different was that every time someone would come closer without warming, he would snap, always on guard. It reminded you of your grandfather, that would always carry with himself a knife; after a long life battling in the countryside, he never forgot the things he saw.

You offer him a tiny smile; despite not knowing the man — not even his name — you still wanted him to feel at ease in the restaurant, everyone was more than welcomed at this tiny place that your grandfather had fought so hard to build. 

Speaking of each, was nowhere to be seen. You weren't sad that he was going to miss your first performance of the song since you two wrote it together. He was almost tired of listening to you go back and forth, memorizing until it was carved on your mind like a detailed wooden piece. Besides, you were sure he was at her grave now, making her some company on this special day. 

The man doesn’t turn away, nor return the smile, which is fine to you. At least he didn't completely ignore your presence, being the complete mystery he was, you felt lucky that he had come to watch you play. 

Taking a deep breath, your fingers flew over the keys with ease; it was almost like a second nature by now, almost as easy as breathing. It had taken you some time to learn, to understand how the structure of the piano worked and how you could turn separate notes into a song. Your grandmother was patient enough to teach you the basics; to teach the same thing over and over until you had printed on your mind like a tattoo. 

The song was quite easy to play, you chose not to do something so out of your comfort zone because you knew your emotions were going to take over once you started to sing. The lyric had you and your grandfather crying once it was finished. But he didn't seem sad  — not entirely — he smiled and hugged you, saying that wherever she was, she was proud; and you believed in his words with all your heart.

Your voice trembles in a few parts, but nothing that would mess with the entire song. It only added more intensity and weight onto your words. Most people that frequented the restaurant knew about her, so it wasn’t something coming out of the blue - they understood the feeling behind it. And you are glad that you could remember your grandmother the way she always loved: playing the piano. 

As you played the last notes, the small crowd of the restaurant applauded your performance, a sound that made your heart jump in anticipation; it was the best reward you could ever receive. You notice that some people were weeping away their tears while you bow in gratitude for their attention. 

Stepping down from the makeshift stage, your mother gives you a hug, she wasn't good with words but you knew she was pleased with the performance. Although, before you could say anything, she shoves an apron in your direction, motioning towards a table that had a couple waiting to order. You shake your head in disbelief, but takes it anyway and starts to get ready to work.

The night goes by in a blink of an eye, there were more people than you were used to. You highly suspected it was because there was a festival coming up in the city in a few weeks, and many people came to see the fireworks. You swing among the tables; dividing your attention between taking orders and thanking the compliments and praises people would throw at you as you walked by. You took each one of them and put close to your heart — they were enough, for now. 

When your father decides to close the restaurant, you're more than tired. Even though in your mind the night went by in a flash; your bones were screaming because of the constant walking and talking. It was good for business, but not for you. Your father was a proud man that didn't accept outside people working in his restaurant, so you had to endure the amount of work and hope that the next day you were fully recharged. 

The trash of the day is by the door and by the looks of it, no one is going to take it out. You glance at your cousin but he immediately shakes his head, showing that he was still cleaning the glasses from the bar. You sigh loudly, getting up from the chair you were comfortably seated in. 

Grabbing the two huge bags, you open the door with your foot. A breath of fresh air hits your face — it smells like rain and grass — it's cold against your skin. You didn't notice the rain had come and gone, too absorbed in your job to pay attention; although you were content since you liked how the earth smelled after it.

You walk to the alleway right beside the restaurant, the huge bins still wet with a few raindrops. As you throw the trash inside, something; no, someone catches your attention from the corner of your eyes.

How fast you recognized the white hair was something to worry about another time, pushing down the thoughts that were starting to rise in your mind to take a better look at him. 

The man was seated against the wall, with his arms on his knees and a bottle of alcohol still hanging from his hand. His head was dropped into his chest, and for a moment you thought he was sleeping. You feel your heart spiking up with anticipation, your hands clench and unclench, million thoughts swing around your mind but you can't hear any of them. Against your better judgement, you start to approach him, making sure your feet make enough noise to announce your arrival.

He probably sensed that you were approaching because you notice how his body jerks slightly, slowly raising his head to look up at you. And your heart sinks in your chest as you catch a glimpse of his eyes, red and watery, some tears traveling his face down his cheeks to his chin. 

“Are you okay?“ You ask out of habit, because of course he wasn't. A man with a bottle of alcohol seated against a dark alley definitely wasn't doing fine. You want to slap yourself as soon as the words come out of your mouth.

“That song…” He starts, his voice is hoarse, barely audible. As if he had screamed the entire night at the top of his lungs. “Was really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” You answer, not knowing what else to say. 

There was a growing feeling on your chest, one you couldn't ignore when seeing the man in such a miserable state. You didn't consider yourself an altruistic person, that would run to help people wherever they had a problem. In fact, your mother once said that you were a little bit too cold when outside of your comfort zone that was music. 

However, contradicting everything you thought you were, you found yourself stepping closer to the man. Since it had rained almost all night, the ground was still wet, and you could see his trousers were wet in a few spots. The place he had chosen to sit wasn't the best either, with a huge puddle right next to his feet.

And again, against your better judgment, you slowly kneel next to him. He didn't flinch nor made any movement that would be a red flag for you to step away. Rather, he looks away and stares at the bottle he was holding, lips trembling; You didn't know if it was because of the cold or because he had been crying. 

“Fuck...” He curses in a whisper, rubbing his face, a few fugitive tears falling down the prison of his eyes “...It’s been a year.”

You couldn't think of anything to say to the man. Comforting people had always been hard since there wasn't anything you could say that would make them feel better — you knew that by experience. He was clearly in pain and going through something you could only imagine. As much as you wanted to help, to offer at least some comfort, you didn’t want to prey and ask unwelcomed questions to a stranger that was in such agony.

“I wrote that song for my grandmother.” It's the first thing that comes to your mind; you heard once that sometimes, changing the subject would make the person focus on other things instead of what is causing distress to them, it was worth a shot, “Everytime I sing it’s like she’s with me.”

The man looks at you again, between white lashes that were still wet from his tears. He was a broken man whose pieces you didn't know how to put it back together. A puzzle you found yourself staring at without any clue of what form it should shape. it doesn't mean you weren't going to try anyway.

"How?" His voice breaks under the pale shine of the moon. You could see his hands trembling, an urge to hold it almost takes over your body, but you stop yourself before you could regret. Instead, you put your hand on his shoulder. 

Men are proud creatures. You knew he would probably avoid you after tonight, being seen as vulnerable was the last thing they wanted. Something you never understood why, because right now, the only thing you felt was that this man was human, that he had feelings and regrets. Most men you had the unpleasant chance to meet at the restaurant were not even half of the man in front of you. 

“Well, she taught me how to play the piano.” You say with a smile growing on your face. The memory was still fresh on your mind, one that you kept revisiting when the longing was too strong. “It’s a small part of her that I made into mine.”

He looks at you, eyes still red from the tears that dared to escape, but you pretend that you didn't see them, preferring to ignore his state for his pride. He opens his mouth to say something but falls in silence again. You still have your hand on his shoulder, and you squeeze it a little bit before getting up. Your knees were wet but it wasn't a problem.

“Sometimes, we need to fully accept that it happened in order to move on.” You say, looking in his eyes. You didn't know what he was going through, but if it was something like what you felt when your grandmother passed away, then you could say one thing or two. “It took me some time, now it’s bittersweet instead of full on bitter.”

You smile at him again, waving goodbye as you make your way back to the restaurant. You don't dare to look back as you turn the corner, but you can feel his eyes following you until you disappeared from his view.

II.

The next morning, you wake up sensing something strange. There’s a peculiar feeling settling on your stomach as you lay on your bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the man from last night. After coming back home, it took you some time to finally get some sleep, tossing and turning around; his face still playing on your mind like your favorite song. 

Why was yesterday any different from the other times you had seen him? 

He was a common client at the restaurant; you had seen him stumbling on his feet when going home more than once. Had even exchanged a few words while filling his cup or bringing something he had ordered. Not that he had paid any attention to you, but it was small victories that you collected like seashells. 

You knew the answer, just didn't want to admit. Because you are itching to know him better since the first time you laid your eyes on him. You’re a curious brat who can’t stop interfering in others' lives. Because you had seen him vulnerable. 

You sigh loudly, rubbing your hands on your face. Fine, you could debate later why you were ceaselessly thinking about a complete stranger — who probably had a heavy amount of baggage and definitely didn't need someone looking at the content inside and making a mess of it. 

After taking a quick bath, you head over to the first floor; despite still being morning, there were a lot of things to get done before opening the restaurant again in the afternoon. You didn't completely dislike the routine, but after repeating the same thing everyday, things tend to get blurry and more often than not, boring. 

The only thing that took you out of the endless circles of cleaning and cooking was when you were seated on the piano bench; when you were allowed to travel to other places and write about whatever you wanted. However, today was an exception for the rule; your eyes instantly go wide as you watch the white haired man come through the door.  

“We are closed, didn't you see the sign?” Your mother screams from the counter next to the door. 

She has a dishcloth over her shoulder; her apron had a few stains of water and you suspected she was washing the rest of the dishes from yesterday. The man stops at the entrance, blinking a few times, mouth open midway but no sound coming from it. And you have to suppress the teasing grin that threatens to appear on your face. 

“It’s okay mother, I invited him,” You say without thinking twice. Not quite sure where the burst of courage came from. 

Both of them quickly turn their heads in your direction and stare at you. Your mother frowning in disbelief — it reminds you of the times you were still bold enough to voice your desire to become a singer, a silly dream that was erased throughout the years. The man had his mouth slightly open, the look of surprise on his face is almost comical. 

Your mother gives you a suspicious look, hesitating for a brief moment before turning around to go back to the kitchen; mumbling something under her breath between what are they thinking? and well at least their are talking with someone. You roll your eyes and decide to ignore the last part. 

Taking a better look at him in the morning light, you realize how his eyelashes were long, longer than any eyelashes you’ve ever seen; they’re pretty. But what would always hold your attention was his eyes; even though he wasn't looking at you, they were a different shade of purple, and you could stay staring at them for hours because that color was so unique.

“I…” He starts, looking anywhere but you. There’s a brief pause but you don't push the conversation, waiting for him to continue. He cleans his throat and tries again, “I wanted to apologize.”

Your brows arch in curiosity; that was the last thing you expected him to say, leaving you speechless. You didn’t understand. Well, it wasn't that you didn't completely understand what he meant by that, you were just caught by surprise. You could swear he would avoid you like the plague and pretend that nothing happened.

He runs his hand through his hair, seeming nervous with the interaction. You watch the movement, noticing how he had more scars running down his arms, and probably down his chest too. Where did he get that many? Your grandfather had one on his knee, but that was all the marks he had to remind him of the bad days in the countryside - one story that he would tell you from time to time. This man must have a lot of them if his body was covered in so many. 

“For the other night, I mean.”

“Ah,” Returning from your train of thought that often had you spacing out; you offer him a genuine smile, “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Fuck, this is embarring,” He drops his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching his hands, “Look, I drank a lot and…”

“I said, you don’t need to apologize,” You cut him short, saving him from the embarrassment that would be telling a story he clearly didn't want to revisit; to a stranger above everything else. As much as you wanted to know, you weren't in the position to demand anything from him, “I understand.”

Because you really did. Although you dealt with your grandmother’s death in a different way, since you were still a child when everything happened, you could still remember the hurt and the grief. People deal with problems in a variety of ways, it wasn't up to you to judge. He finally looks at you, mouth opening to say something, but you wave your hand, stopping him from saying anything else

“Are you hungry?” You ask, looking at the clock. it was half past 9. There were still some hours until lunch. If he was here at this time, he probably didn't eat anything since yesterday, the man needed something on his stomach after drinking so much. “My father just finished baking some bread, come eat with me.”

And again, you don't know where the burst of courage to invite him to your house, to your table came from, but you accepted it anyway. You had always been afraid of taking the first step since your parents discouraged you every time you tried. After some time you stopped dreaming about becoming a singer, or playing for a huge crowd. However, there was something about the man that made you want to act, to do something. 

He looks surprised by the invitation, and you don’t blame him. it was a surprise for you as well. Since when did you become so bold? You would blame the curiosity that lingered every time you looked at his face; the odd feeling growing on your chest every time you thought about his beautiful purple eyes. 

“Sanemi…“ Looking away, he rubs his neck. “My name is Shinazugawa Sanemi.”

“Oh, right!“ You can help but laugh, clapping your hands together. Such a simple step that you two had totally overlooked, jumping straight to the heavy stuff, “Y/N, nice to meet you!”

You offer your hand, and after a moment of hesitation, he holds your hand and squeezes it gently. It’s a firm grip and you can feel how calloused and rough his skin truly is. You don't mind though. 

“Come,” Before Sanemi could back off and rethink the invitation; you pull him towards the kitchen, hand still holding his’ in a tight grip, “My father just took it out of the oven, it’s better when it's still hot.”

He stumbles a little over his own feet, mumbling something underneath his breath. But follows you inside nevertheless; not letting go of your hand either.

III.

When a song is created, it starts with different types of attempts; you could try changing the rhythm first. Then the words; should they rhyme? should they be separated in the chorus? It’s a long process until you reach the final piece; and it’s even a longer process to make something you’re proud of. 

It’s the same process with your relationship with Sanemi. It started with only a few words thrown on the paper, none of them making any sense together. It took you some time to figure it out, how to use those words to create something nice. 

The words would come to your mind every time he showed up at the restaurant; every time he talked to you and you could have a glimpse inside his mind. It was a tough task, to say the least. However, your heart has had a change of weather lately; rather than staying inside because of the rain; it started to go out, looking for the sun. 

Sanemi would always appear if you invited him, especially on the days when you played the piano. He had told you once that he liked to hear you playing it, and since then you tried your best to come up with more songs and more rhythms. It was almost as if an imaginary dam had been breached inside your brain, and now each night you poured your heart into the paper, there were never enough words to describe everything you wanted to say. So you played.

His presence started to become more familiar; your mother knew his name, your father did too. Even your cousin now would talk to him without receiving a death glare. It was rather amusing seeing them interact because Sanemi was still, well, Sanemi. Although he would slip every now and then, he would always come back to his feet. It was a slow progress, one that you were more than lucky to see it happening. 

You never mentioned that you were worried about his habits, what people did with their lives was up to them. However, after that night, you were always looking out for him. Talking and keeping him company when you weren't too busy with other customers. In the beginning he had told you to fuck off; but there wasn't any real threat on his voice, so of course you didn't. 

You noticed, then, that he had stopped coming back home with a bottle of alcohol; had stopped getting angry at the other customers who would  bump into him sometimes. Had a more friendly voice when talking to your cousin, and didn’t fall asleep on the counter with a glass still full. It was those small details that would make your heart warm, spring finally arriving after a long winter. 

“Did you drink tonight?” You ask, leaning over the counter. He was the last client for the night. 

The restaurant was closing; what once was relief, now would leave you feeling gloomy because you had to say goodbye to your favorite person. You never knew when Sanemi would come back. He never told you exactly what his job was; or where he worked. So you had only blank spaces that you had to fill in with your own imagination. You were up for the challenge, anyway.

“No,” He smiles at you, a sight you could never get tired of. Sanemi had a different type of beauty; it was endearing to watch. “I decided to stop.”

You can help but open a huge smile after hearing that, “That’s good news!” 

It was the little details that transformed him into someone special; not only his beauty was captivating but the way he carried himself, tall and strong. You liked to hear whatever he had to say because it was always interesting. It wasn't half assed excuses or lies most people — most men — would tell you on a daily basis. 

There was something else about him; about his scars; about his mysterious past that you felt drawn to, like a fly is drawn to the light. You could only hope one day you would be able to sail on those mysterious waters without sinking after the first storm. 

“Well, it’s time to close...” An idea crosses your mind, and like everything you have been doing lately, you don't give a second thought, you don't hesitate. It flows out of your mouth as easily as breathing “But why don’t you come sit with me before you go?”

Sanemi raises a brow at you, and you laugh at his hesitation. Without wasting any more time, you grab his muscular arm and pull him off of the bar stool, heading to the stage. You often find yourself taking the first step yet again; it was rare the times where he would seek out for you. In the beginning, it would make you second doubt everything you said or did, worrying that he didn't like you. 

However, it wasn't that he didn't like you, he just didn't know what to do; because everytime you pulled him to do something or talked to him, he would gladly follow, never complaining — unless you asked him to help clean the restaurant, that he would complain, a lot.

“Have you ever played piano before?” The floor of the stage creaks under your steps, not used to have more than one person standing over it. You sit down on the bench, tapping the small space beside you. It was tight, but it would work. 

“No…” Sanemi stands behind the bench with his arms crossed over his chest, still unsure about what you were doing. You angrily tap the space beside you as a warning. 

He lets out a loud sigh before coming to sit next to you - you knew he only did that to appear tough; it was too easy to see that he wasn't really annoyed. Sitting by your side, his thigh completely touching yours sends a shiver down your spine; instantly coloring red your cheeks, and you have to shut down the thoughts that were starting to rise in the back of your mind. 

“My grandmother used to say that sometimes music is even more powerful than words,” You say, fingers hovering over the keys. If there was one thing that you would never stop talking about it, it was her. Somehow it felt like she was still alive, remembering her so tenderly. “She would just play away her thoughts and feelings, it was fascinating to watch.”

When Sanemi looks at you, there's a strange fog in his eyes, clouding his view; as if the weather had closed and it was about to rain. It stirs something inside you, an odd feeling that you knew all too well. Sometimes you would catch him staring at nothing, with the same clouded stare. 

You knew that something had happened in the past and he was still grieving over it, not only he had told you that night, but every time you talked about your grandmother he would react the same way. You could only hope that your company was enough to distract him from those feelings. 

“Why don’t you give it a try?” You offer, showing him the keyboard, for now this would have to be enough. 

“Me?” His voice has a hint of hesitance. You nod, encouraging him with a smile and a tap on his shoulder.  

He looks at you, to the piano, then to you again. It was amusing to watch, a grown up man afraid of touching simple keys. Although, to be very honest, when you started playing you would feel completely intimidated with the size and the sounds it would make. But what was most intimidating was the amount of work you had to put to actually learn how to play by yourself. It took you some years to finally overcome that fear of failure before jumping head first. 

He touches one key, but there’s almost no sound coming from it since he didn't put too much force on it; when you hesitate to touch the keys is when you first start to fail. He tries again, but this time, his finger slips and touches another key, the combination has you two flinching. You bite your lips as he continues to touch random keys; making a rather interesting combination. 

“You’re laughing.” 

“I’m not laughing.”

Sanemi sighs and retreats his hand, looking defeated, “I’m not made for this shit.”

“Oh shut up, here.” 

You gently hold his hand; skin warm under your touch. He doesn't complain about your boldness, so you keep going, putting his hand over the keyboard again, lightly tapping his index finger over a key so he would play the note. It’s a slow process, having to move at a pace that would allow the movement, but the opportunity of holding his hand is worth every minute. In the end, you two played the beginning of an easy song.

“See, it’s not that hard,” You say, letting go of his hand. “It’s all about feeling it.” Your face is warm for some reason. And Sanemi is still staring at the piano, and you could swear that his ears are a little bit red. 

“I’m shit at feelings,” He confesses, rubbing his neck. 

Well, you couldn't argue with that. He definitely semeed like someone who would rather show than say, but that’s the beauty in people right? Learning with mistakes, growing with the years as you grasp the nuances of reality and the world around you. 

“We all have to start from somewhere, right?” You smile at him, bumping his shoulder. 

Sanemi laughs, and doesn't miss the opportunity to bump your shoulder slightly harder, making you almost fall off the bench. He laughs even harder when you try to push him off but don't get even close to move a single inch of his body. However, you wouldn't give up so easily.

The small fight ends when Sanemi accidentally hits his elbow on the keyboard, making a loud noise that has you two jumping and your mother appearing from the kitchen yelling that it's already too late. The smirk on his face doesn't go away though. 

IV.

The festival was even prettier this year. The paper lamps shining on top of the buildings give an ethereal feeling to the scenario; the sakura’s trees were adorned with ribbons of all colors, petals flying around in a beautiful dance while the night was captured by the anticipation for the fireworks. However, that wasn't the only reason. 

Seated next to you, was Sanemi. His hair reflecting the colored lights from the lamps only made him radiate beauty; they danced across the white canvas. His face looked so peaceful, there was not a single wrinkle on his forehead as he ate the food you had prepared for the night. For a moment you forgot he was really there with you. It all seemed part of a dream, but not even your dreams could come up with such a dazzling view. 

To say that you were surprised when he invited you to come with him to the festival, was an understatement. It took you so long to process the information that he thought you had denied; and it was almost a battle to make him believe that yes, you really wanted to go with him, and no, you only hesitated because you were caught off guard. Truth be told, a few days had passed and you still couldn't believe. Not even now, when you were looking at him from the corner of your eyes. 

It also took you long hours of begging and whining for him to tell you that his favorite food was ohagi. You couldn't believe how silly he acted when he told you; almost as a kid, stomping his feet and all. You tried your best not to laugh, but failed miserably, which only made him even more embarrassed. When he left, you had your hair all messy but the smile on your face didn't disappear for the rest of the night.

You had prepared everything in anticipation, counting the days and hours to this moment. Your father gave you a day off only for this occasion — he would never admit, but after the white haired man had helped fix a few things in the restaurant, lending a hand whenever they needed, he came to like Sanemi. 

Your mother happily helped you prepare the ohagi and a few other things for the festival. Even suggested buying new clothes for you, which you denied. It wasn't a date, at least he didn't say it was. You were only keeping him company, right? Oh hell, who were you trying to fool? You wanted this to be a date so bad. 

The spot Sanemi chose was near the lake. As you looked around you noticed that there were reflections of the lamps on the water; like an infinite mirror, you could find stars in the sky or down there on earth, even in Sanemi's eyes. An infinity of beauty surrendering you, bouncing around like shooting stars; all you could do was close your eyes and make a wish. 

“I don't know, just…” You trailed off, thinking about his question, “You only die when you are forgotten, memories can keep you alive throughout the decades, don't you think?”

“You sound awfully like someone I know.” He throws his head back with a smirk on his face, drinking the sake.

He had promised it was only because of the festival, just for fun. And you didn't need him to promise that he wasn't drinking anymore, because you believed. You trusted him enough to know that he knew what he was doing. Also, you had seen his journey, there was no need to be reassured when you knew by heart. 

“Hmm, I bet they are wise and smart!” The sake tastes strong on your mouth, but you didn't mind. It wasn't often that you drank, but the feeling was nice and very welcomed.

“No, actually he’s a really annoying brat,” Sanemi chuckles, “But you aren't annoying.” He confesses, and if it wasn't too dark you could see a hint of red on his cheeks. 

“But am i still a brat?” You raise a brow at his direction. The smirk on his face tells you everything.

“Don't you dare finish that sentence or else there's no ohagi for you anymore.” You try narrowing your eyes as a threat, but the tiny smile tugging on the corner of your lips is enough to give you away. 

Sanemi’s smirk is still visible even in the low light, it has become a trademark of him by now, the curl on the corner of his lips, the chuckles that would follow after. And you would take notes of each of his mannerisms, remember every word, pay attention to what he liked and mostly what made him angry. Even if he wasn't someone that talked about himself in general, you had your own way to find out about him.

He picks another ohagi, and you watch him as he takes a bite, humming in delight. It makes your heart warm, your skills with cooking finally paying off for something else rather than just for the restaurant. Watching him eat your food and liking it hits you differently than anything else. You take another sip of sake, the drink burning a little as it goes down your throat is a welcomed feeling. 

“Genya,” Sanemi suddenly says. You look at him confused; the smirk long gone, replaced by the same melancholy look that would everytime cloud his eyes, “It was my little brother’s name.” He explains.

You look down at your hands holding the cup, contemplating. It was the first time Sanemi ever spoke about his family, his past. Even knowing him for quite some time now, even after becoming his friend, building a relationship with him from scratch and turning into something you can’t see yourself without it; his past was never brought up. Moreover, you truly believe he was a good man, there was no need to open old wounds only to satisfy your curiosity. 

“You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to,” You immediately ensure him, touching his shoulder. 

The last thing you wanted was him feeling like he owed you an explanation. Yes, you wanted to know, of course you did. Because you wanted to help, pick his pieces and put them back together, Sanemi wasn't a broken man, not entirely - he still had a bright and beautiful light inside him, it was only obscured with a few debris, leftover of a hurricane that he never recovered from. 

“It’s fine…” He’s gazing at the lake, mind elsewhere, far from reality, “I feel like I’ve been mourning for so long that I can't think about anything else.”

It breaks your heart seeing him like this, even harder than the night when you found him crying in the alleway. Because now you knew him, his name, his personality, his favorite food. Because now you held him so close to your heart that you were afraid of crushing it. Because you cared, more than anything. 

“But that’s why we struggle. It never goes away,” Your hand shifts from his shoulder, running down his back, caressing with small movements. Almost embracing him with one arm. “It only gets easier.” 

Sanemi goes quiet after that, closing his eyes. But you keep rubbing his back, face so close to his that you could see the difference of the skin that healed and formed his scars; the texture is rougher in contrast with the rest of his face. 

“Were you there? When it happened?” You find yourself asking. There are sirens going off in your head. Yet, you can’t stop. It’s an intense feeling of yearning. If you could only understand, just a little bit; having a glimpse of what the man was so hurt by it, then maybe you could help put his former self back together. That’s all you wanted. 

“Yes,” His voice breaks a little, words caught on his throat. He squeezes his eyes, closing his hands in a fist. However, he doesn't flinch nor say anything. So, instead of retreating, you put your other hand on his arm, the other still gently caressing his back. 

“He… He said I was the sweetest person in the world,” He whispers, placing his hand over yours, “Shit, I wasn’t even a good brother, I treated him badly, I pushed him away. I don’t deserve his words.”

“But he forgave you in the end,” You quickly say before he would go down on a spiraling hate towards himself, words flooding your mouth before you could stop, “He could have said anything, and he chose to let you know that you were still loved by him, even after everything.” 

You didn't know what everything actually meant, there were still so many blank spaces that needed to be filled for you to fully understand the man beside you. However, you knew one thing: blaming yourself was so much easier than forgiving. 

“Fuck… I don’t,” He tries, the grip in your hand a little bit too tight, but you don't pay any attention. All your focus was on his expression, his words, “I wanted him to be happy, to get married and have a family. And now…”

“Sanemi…” The look on his face is devastating, defeated. 

He had probably held all these emotions for so long, all these words of regret and shame, kept inside his heart and let it loose on his mind; torturously haunting him at each step he took. Now you understood why he had resorted to alcohol. The pain in his words touches your heart, making it quiver under it. 

“Please, don't blame yourself. We can't choose which path people are going to take, it’s out of our hands.”

Silence falls between you two, but it isn't uncomfortable. And you are more than happy to sit there and hold him close, trying your best to show through actions how much you cared about him. If your words couldn't do the job, at least you hoped your touch was reassuring him. At least, it worked for you — every time your grandfather patted your head was enough to remember to keep going, even when the longing was too much. 

“You deserve to be happy, Sanemi,” There were so many things you wanted to say, but you couldn't find the right words, “Your brother wouldn’t want any less, right?”

You hold his calloused hands in your small ones, slender fingers touching and tracing his scars, feeling the roughness of it. Since the first time you saw him, It had awakened something inside you; something about his hands, arms, his chest, his face, drawn with a pattern that made him so fascinating and interesting, traced with stories of pain and joy; a map that you couldn't help but want to explore every inch of it. 

“This world is cold and we are desperately fighting to be heard, to be seen.” Because it was the truth. Every day when you open your eyes; every day when you close them; each day is a small battle you need to live through. “Being alone in a place like this it’s just cruel.”

You don't know what possessed you at the moment, but when you realized, your lips had touched his skin, planting a gentle kiss, overflowed with affection, on his fingers. 

“That’s why I’ll be here for you, whenever you need me.”

The first firework explodes behind Sanemi, lighting him in an endearing aura that takes your breath away. Although, you can’t hear them; your heartbeat is even louder in your ears. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his warm breath against your skin. His hand comes to rest on your chin, squeezing slightly. He tilts your head in his direction and you close your eyes. 

Then, he kisses you.

[lunmelia]

I praythee... more dadstiel raising Jack... please?

I was gonna hold off on this for a bit, but I’m feeling a bit sick and unmotivated to do anything else, so here you go. I’m putting the rest of the post under a line because I maybe got a bit carried away. maybe wrote just a little tiny story. just a small one. Maybe 2.

----

Okay, so maybe Dean did not like baby Jack at first. He had his reasons, okay? Weak reasons, but reasons. Firstly, a baby shapeshifter is very different to the baby of the literal devil. Secondly, that baby is the reason his mom and best friend almost died. Weak reasons, but reasons. But his dislike for the baby only lasted three days. Three days of the other three frowning at him and repeating, “he’s just a baby, Dean.” Three days of Castiel somehow succeeding in keeping the baby calm. Three days of Dean avoiding the room Cas and Jack were situated in. But on the night of the third day, Jack had decided he would not be persuaded to go to sleep. No matter what Castiel did. Dean and Mary had been holed away in Sam’s room, far enough that their ears weren’t damaged from the cries, close enough to act quickly if anything were to go wrong. Three hours into the crying, Dean decided he’d had enough. “Alright,” he snapped, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning against. “I’m putting an end to this.” He marched towards the door. “Dean,” warned Mary, rising from her seat. Dean paused to turn back to them, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “I’m not gonna kill the damn thing, jeez,” he said before continuing his steps.  A few minutes later, the door opened to the room where Cas was hurriedly shushing and bouncing baby Jack, and Dean strode in with a guitar in hand.  Cas threw panicked eyes to him. He was worried about the nephil’s cries affecting the human’s ears. “Dean-”  “I’ve heard worse, Cas. Had you screaming at me after I crawled outta hell, didn’t I?” He threw the angel a grin before closing the door. “I can deal. Put him on the bed, will you?” He gestured to where four pillows were assembled in a rectangle border. Where Jack had been sleeping, since there was no crib to be found in the bunker. Cas hesitantly did as he was told, settling Jack down as he writhed and screamed, his small face scrunched up, red and wet with snot and tears.  “You’re terrible at this, by the way,” Dean commented after wincing at a particular loud scream. “You were basically shaking the kid when I came in. And you need to change into some softer clothes, man. Your suit’s too rough, and that’s all he’s been feeling since he was born, apart from that blanket we’ve got him in. No wonder he’s upset.” He settled on the edge of the bed, propping one knee up on the sheets and resting his guitar atop it.  “Oh,” Cas said, “of course. I hadn’t realised.” “Hm.” Dean gave him an obvious look. “Now shush for a minute.” He looked down at his guitar, adjusting his fingers on the appropriate cords before beginning to strum a soft tune. Jack’s cry abruptly cut off as his ears caught on the new sound. Yet he quickly ignored it in favour of continuing his screeches. Dean plucked the strings for a few more seconds before taking a breath, and singing in a low baritone,  “There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range.” Cas gave a short gasp as if he had just realised what Dean was doing. Dean spared him a glance before focusing back on the guitar. “His horse and his cattle are his only companions He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons Waiting for summer, his pastures to change.” Dean was now looking at Jack, who was looking back and releasing confused whines. Dean looked up to the angel and whispered, “sit down, Cas.”  Castiel slowly lowered himself to the bed as Dean moved onto the next part of the verse. “And as the moon rises, he sits by his fire Thinkin’ about women and glasses of beer Reclosing his eyes as the doggies retire He sings out a song which is soft, but it’s clear As if maybe someone could hear.” By this point, Jack was still whimpering with tears gathering in his eyes, but his full focus was on Dean with a curious tilt of his head. Dean watched the baby, the irritation in eyes now lessened. Instead, he now regarded the nephil with a soft, considering look. Cas, same as Jack, gave his full attention to Dean, a twitch in his lips. “Goodnight, you moonlight ladies Rockabye, sweet baby, James Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose Won’t you let me go down in my dreams? And rockabye, sweet baby, James.” Jack was now soothed to soft coos, the red in his face having completely receded. Dean, unconsciously, was leaning towards the baby. A soft smile fought to pull at his lips. “Now, the first of December was covered with snow, So was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston Though the Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frostin’ With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go.”  Jack’s eyes were fluttering. It seemed that he was fighting sleep, however, as he kept blinking to gaze at Dean. A sudden yawn escaped him. Cas’ face bloomed with a wide smile while Dean let himself grin softly.  “There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway A song that they sing when they take to the sea A Song that they sing of their home in the sky Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep But singing works just fine for me.” Cas huffed a laugh at Dean, who threw him a grin before turning his gaze back to the now asleep Jack. Dean pitched his voice quieter, almost a whisper so not to disturb the sleeping infant.  “So goodnight, you moonlight ladies Rockabye, sweet baby, James Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose Won’t you let me go down in my dreams? And rockabye, sweet baby, James.” Dean let the last chord fade away, and the room was cast into silence. He gently laid his hand atop his guitar, afraid to make any noises that might awaken Jack. He gazed at the baby nephil with a soft smile. 

“He’s kinda cute when he’s not trying to blow out our eardrums,” he admitted quietly. Cas smiled and hummed.  After a moment, Cas whispered, “that was beautiful, Dean.” Dean snapped his gaze to the angel, alarmed and caught off-guard by the compliment. “I- oh. oh, y-yeah, sure, okay. um...” he trailed off, looking away back to the infant. Cas tilted his head, amused. Dean stared at Jack for a moment, a furrow working its way to his brow. “... We’re really going to raise Lucifer’s baby, aren’t we?” he asked.  Cas frowned at the mention of the archangel, but nodded. “It would seem that way, yes,” he said. He waited for Dean’s response, for him to argue the fact one last time.  But Dean sighed, his irises bouncing back and forth for a moment before he said, “okay. We’re going to need to buy supplies, then. This place is lacking. Not surprised by that, though. Not exactly the kind of place you’d expect the Men of Letters to be raising their kids.” Cas hummed his agreement. There was another moment of silence before Dean rose from the bed. “Right, I guess I’ll go discuss that with mom and Sam. You... keep watch over him.” He gestured to Jack, still sleeping.  “I will.” Cas nodded.  Dean nodded back. “Right.” He stepped up to the door.  “Goodnight, Dean,” Cas softly called.  Dean looked back to him, nodding again. “Night.” He slowly, quietly opened the door and stepped out into the hall, where Sam and Mary stood waiting. He raised a brow at them as he clicked the door close.  “He stopped crying,” Sam said, stating the obvious. “He’s sleeping?” Dean nodded.  Mary looked from the guitar to her son. “You sang to him?” she questioned.  Dean paused a moment, then nodded with a shrug as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “Yeah. We need to make a list of baby supplies,” he said, quickly changing the subject. “And baby-proofing stuff. That should definitely be a priority. This is not a safe place to raise a baby without baby-proofing.” He waved a hand, scoffed while glancing around the hall as if observing the entire bunker, then turned and walked away.  Sam and Mary looked at each other, both equally confused at Dean’s sudden change of attitude towards Jack. Sam then shrugged, grinned and chased after Dean, calling in a whisper, “what song did you sing?” “I ain’t telling you. Why’d you wanna know?” Dean gave his brother a look of disgust. 

“Oh, come on. Was it Blackbird? It was Blackbird, wasn’t it? That’s so obvious.”

“No, Sam, it wasn’t Blackbird.”

Mary huffed a laugh, shaking her head before following after her sons.

(The song Dean plays and sings is “Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor, in case you wanted to take a listen)

--

Although, yes, Cas can put Jack to sleep with his grace, he refuses to. He’s afraid that would intefere with Jack’s natural growth, and that Jack will begin to depend on his grace and will never be able to put himself to sleep. So Cas doesn’t. Besides, Dean singing to him seems to work just fine.  -- They were all afraid that they were going to have to feed Jack some weird, special combination since he’s a nephil. Like, milk and holy water, or something. But nope, normal formula works just fine. He’s actually a pretty normal baby. Just, plus deafening screaming, wings and healing.  -- I’m honestly not sure how to approach Chuck with this AU. I don’t want him to be evil because I want this to be a soft, happy AU but he is an evil bastard, so. If anyone wants to handle the angst side of this AU that involves Chuck go ahead but I ain’t touching it. I will say this though; I can see Amara convincing Chuck not to kill a baby. Amara: it’s a baby, God Chuck: yes, but it’s a very dangerous baby Amara: ... it’s a baby. Chuck: ... a very dangerous baby. Amara: there is... no such thing as a dangerous baby. there is literally... nothing dangerous about a baby. nephil or no Chuck: but- Amara: do not kill a baby, God. Chuck: ... fine. -- The four of them were so busy getting Jack settled in the bunker that they just completely forgot to tell the other hunters that, y’know, they have a baby now. So it was a bit of shock to Jody, when she called to check in on them after not hearing from them for weeks.  Jody, on the phone with Sam: yeah, we haven’t heard from you guys for weeks! what’s going on, everything okay? Sam, on the other line: uh, yeah, no everything’s fine, we’ve just been *glances over to where Mary and Cas are bathing Jack in the sink* busy. Jody: busy? you guys need help with anything? Sam: no, no we’re fine- Jack: *coos and smiles* Cas: *gasps* was that his first smile? Mary: it was! he smiled!  Dean, jumping up from where he was sitting: he’s smiling!?  Sam, hurrying over: wait, I wanna see!  Jody: ... Sam. Sam: oh- uh, heh, yes, Jody? Jody: do you have a baby? Sam: we... might.  Jody: why do you have a baby, Sam? Sam: uh, well, see it’s a long story- Dean: *laughs* look at him go! look at that little smile! Jody: oh my god I’m coming over- *hangs up* Mary: was that Jody? Sam: yep Dean: ... we completely forgot to tell the others about the baby, didn’t we? Sam: yep.  -- Dean, with Jack in his arms: Claire, you wanna hold him? Claire: uh, no thanks Dean: no, I think you wanna hold him *steps up to her* Claire, panicking: no, I really don’t- oh my god no don’t- *squeaks as Dean passes Jack to her* Dean, directing her: put your arms like that, hold his head like this- there you go! look at that, you’re holding him Claire: I hate you so much right now. *looks down at Jack with wide eyes* Jack: *stares up at her* Claire: he’s so tiny. so fragile... am I holding him right? I don’t wanna hurt him- Sam: you’re doing great, Claire. Don’t worry about it Claire: okay... can I... can I keep holding him? or- Cas: of course you can, Claire Claire: okay, thanks... *goes back to staring at Jack*  Jack: ... *pulls at Claire’s hair* Claire: ow ow ow ow okay no I changed my mind take him please now- -- Jack’s first word, or at least first coherent sound, was surprise surprise a simple drawn out “daaa”. After weeks of Dean, Sam and Mary and everyone else referring to Cas as “dada” “dad” and “daddy” to try and get Jack to say it, the moment finally happened. It came out of nowhere, in a moment where they weren’t even trying to get him to say it. Dean: *sitting on the floor, watching Jack crawl around and fiddle with his toys* Jack: *loses interest in the block he was holding, looks at Dean, giggles then disappears* Dean, scrambling to stand: shit- Cas! Jack’s flying again!  Cas, appearing before him three seconds later and holding Jack at an arm’s length: Jack, we’ve discussed this many times. You’re not to fly when I’m not in the room. Do you understand? Jack, cooing and reaching a hand towards Cas’ face: daaa Dean and Cas: ... Dean: did he just- Jack, more enthusiastically: da! Dean: he did! holy shit, Cas, he said it! he basically called you dad! he- Cas? Cas, tearing up: I believe... I am going to cry.  -- After that, Jack developed a bad habit of flying whenever he wanted to see or be held by Cas. Honestly, it got annoying at times, especially when Cas was busy with other matters. But what else were they supposed to do, let him fly around until he gave up? They did eventually solve the problem after Gabriel came back and they got some of the other angels on their side. When Cas wasn’t available, one of the other angels fetched Jack. Though, the first time Jack was caught by Gabriel and not Cas, he was extremely upset. He blew out all the lights in the bunker and shattered glass and porcelain with his cries. 

He could not be consoled for hours, not even when Cas was holding him. He latched onto Cas and cried until he was sure Cas wasn’t gone or going anywhere. He could not be separated from Cas that night, screaming whenever someone tried to take him from him. They concluded that he probably had separation anxiety since he had never really been separated from Cas before. Cas was there during the pregnancny, there when he was born, was his primary caretaker since Jack’s crying didn’t affect him like it did the humans, and he always catches him whenever he flies away. Cas was worried that Jack was going to depend too much on his grace, yet in the end Jack ended up depending too much on him.

Trying to ease Jack’s separation anxiety was a process, and a difficult one. Especially with him being a nephil. 

He seemed okay with being without Cas for an hour and a bit, so they started by increasing the amount of time that Cas is gone. Which failed because whenever Jack noticed it had been a while since he’d seen his dad, he flew away. And since they wanted to avoid another huge tantrum so soon, they let Cas fetch him. 

Ultimately, the only solution was getting other angels to catch him, and braving through the tantrums. Increasing the time in which Cas had to wait before going to Jack. It was... very, very difficult. 

Because it turned out that Jack wasn’t the only one with separation anxiety. 

They discover this fact the first time they attempt to separate them. Cas broke three minutes in, and flew to Jack with a muttered, “I’m sorry” to Dean. A collective sigh fell over the room as they looked to Cas, guiltily holding a wailing Jack. 

“Alright, then,” Dean said, scratching at the back of his head, “guess that’s just something else we gotta work on.” Cas looked to them with wide, apologetic eyes as he held Jack closer. 

From then on the “sessions”, as they started calling them, weren’t just trying to calm Jack down in Cas’ absence, but also trying to get Cas to stay put. To not cave in and go running to comfort Jack. Which was hard, seeing as Cas was an angel and didn’t really have to listen to a bunch of humans telling him “stay.” It took a lot of convincing. Convincing from Dean, mostly. Because Cas listened to Dean. For some weird reason, Dean thought. 

The third session was the most difficult one they had at that point. It was three hours into Cas being away from Jack after another angel caught him, and they were aiming for four. Dean had left Cas with Sam for a minute to get himself some water, taking Cas’ impulse control with him. When he came back, Sam was very nearly begging Cas not to leave. 

“Sam,” said Dean. “Go check on how the others are doing, will you?” Even though they could clearly tell, based on Jack’s screams echoing down the hall. 

Sam hesitated. “You- you sure-” he stopped at the flat look Dean gave him. “Right, yeah, sure thing.” Sam glanced at Cas before hurrying out of the room. 

When the door clicked shut, Cas stepped up to Dean. “Dean, I have to-”

“Sit down, Cas,” he told him, placing his glass on top of the drawers. 

Cas paused, then tensed his shoulders as a glare settled over his features. “No. Will you just let me-”

“Cas!” Dean snapped, standing straight and regarding him with a hard glare. “Sit. Down.” 

A tense silence passed between them as they glared at each other. Then, with a huff Castiel looked away and sat down on the bed. Dean dragged the desk chair to the bed and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Now I know this is really hard for you right now, but you have to push through and stay. put. This is a good thing for Jack-”

“How!?” Cas threw his hands up, restless. “How is this a good thing for him? He’s crying, he’s inconsolable, he’s in distress. How is something that is having such a negative effect on him a good thing?” He glared at Dean as if he were challenging him to answer. 

“It may be affecting him badly now, but I promise you that this will not last forever. I know it’s hurting, but there ain’t another way for us to deal with his separation anxiety. We gotta get through the shitty stuff to get to the good results, Cas,” he reasoned, imploring Cas with his eyes to understand that this just needs to happen. 

Cas opened his mouth to reply when a particularly loud screech ripped through the air. It caused the lights in the room to flicker. Cas looked in alarm towards the door, a weak sound escaping him. He threw worried, scared, eyes towards Dean and pleaded, “my son needs me, Dean.” 

Dean sighed. Right. It seemed the only way to get Cas to stay put was to ground him through physical touch. He scooted the chair forward, reached out and tightly grasped Cas’ hands in his own. Cas’ gaze snapped down and back up, surprised. Dean ignored the look. 

“What happens if we decide to enrol him in school, huh?” he asked the angel.

Cas’ brow furrowed, momentarily confused. “What?” 

“What happens if we decide to enrol him in school?” he repeated. “Say I let you go right now, say we give up and just let you stay by Jack all the time, come whenever he calls. Okay, then what? He grows up, only knows a world where you’re always by his side. Then one day, you tell him that he has to go somewhere without you for 6 hours, everyday of every week. He reacts, only this time he knows words. He says ‘please’ and ‘no’ and ‘don’t do this, don’t leave me dad I don’t wanna go’. What then?” 

Castiel winced, his heart tightening as the image of a 6-year-old Jack begging him not to leave came to mind. “I...” he trailed off, not sure what to say. 

Dean nodded. “It would hurt a helluva lot more, wouldn’t it? Be a lot more difficult to leave once he has words to express how much he doesn’t want you to. And let’s say you don’t. Let’s say you cave in, because he’s your son and you love him and you don’t wanna see him cry. So you homeschool him, continue to stay by his side. You know what’s gonna happen? He’s not gonna be able to do anything without you, Cas. He’s not gonna know how,” he said, words clear and expression honest as he tried to get through to the angel. 

Cas lowered his gaze, narrowing his eyes as he considered Dean’s words. 

Dean suddenly laughed, bitterly saying, “I should know.”

Cas looked back up at him, tilting his head with a silent question. 

Dean sighed, his shoulders dropping. “I spent most of my life with Sammy by my side every single damn day.” Castiel’s eyes cleared with understanding, but he let the other continue. “A life with Sam in it was all I knew. When he left for college... I was a mess. A big ol’ rage-filled mess. I hated Sam for leaving me, and that’s what I thought he was doing. Leaving me. He was just trying to live his life, but... I just didn’t know how to live without him. I couldn’t. I still-” he laughed breathlessly, shaking his head before gesturing to his neck. “I still get this nervous itch when he’s away for a few days. And I’m almost forty.” 

He felt Cas’ hands tighten around his, and he shrugged off the sympathetic look the angel was giving him. He raised his brow towards him, questioning, “do you want that for Jack? For him to be crying and begging you not to go when you drop him off at school? For him to not go on any camping trips or sleepovers because he’d rather stay home with you? For him to get a nervous itch whenever you leave even though he’s a full grown adult?” 

Cas shook his head. “No... No, I don’t want that.” 

“Okay.” Dean nodded, and patted his hand once. “Then this is what you gotta do.” 

Cas nodded slowly, understanding and acceptance sinking in. The lights flickered as another one of Jack’s cries echoed through the bunker. Cas sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted. “This is... this is really hard,” he finally admitted. 

Dean gave a sad smile. He knew that. He knew how much Cas was struggling. He watched Cas look longingly towards the door, then made a decision. “C’mere.” He rose to his feet, tugging on Cas’ hands as he went. Cas hesitated, looking uncertain. “The offer’s gonna go away real quick if you don’t hurry up,” Dean warned. Cas stood and Dean wrapped his arms around him, tugging him in. Cas sagged against him with a sigh. He pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, and his hands gripped at the back of his jacket. 

After a moment, Cas began to cry. Dean was shocked for a moment, not expecting to hear the sniffles and hitches of breath. He had seen Cas cry quite a few times since Jack was born, but he hasn’t gotten used to it yet. He quickly got over himself. This wasn’t the time to freak out. His friend needed him. He began to rub a hand over Cas’ back. “I know it’s hard, but you’re doing the right thing,” he murmured. Cas hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t say anything. 

After another moment, Dean said, “y’know, I think I’ve seen you cry more these past few months than I have in the 12 years I’ve known you.” 

“Clearly, Jack brings out the worst in me,” Cas replied, his words muffled by Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean chuckled as a response. The two stood in each other’s arms, quiet apart from Castiel’s sniffling and Jack’s distant cries. The nephil caused the lights to flicker again with another screech, and Cas’ arms tightened around Dean. 

“How much longer?” he asked. 

Dean paused in rubbing his back to check his watch. “You got 27 more minutes to go.” 

Cas nodded. “Okay. And you’ll... stay with me?”

Dean squeezed him, then resumed rubbing circles into his back. This was unusual territory for him. A hug that’s lasted this long was rare for him. But Cas was feeling bad, feeling awful, and Dean would be damned if he let him. If Cas wants Dean to stay by his side during this, then so be it. “Of course, Cas. Of course...” 

----

Alright, that’s it for now. I got carried away ajshfkajhfaj but fuck it I’m actually invested in this AU now, dammit. This wasn’t part of the plan!!

Now to tag some lovely people <3 your comments brighten my day

@arimeii @marvelmisha @astermacguffin @cursed-byesexual @kichisk2020

[lizzielikeborden]

Part Of Your World

Request: I had a dream last night of the bau at karaoke... Spencer trying really hard to get out of it but then getting up and singing just for y/n 😂

Authors Note: I don’t know how good this is, but I enjoyed writing it. The song choice was based off a video I saw of mgg singing this song :)

Summary: You and your significant other Spencer Reid go to Rossi’s with his co workers from the BAU to do a little drinking and a little karaoke. But with a twist, it’s spin the wheel karaoke so once its your turn whatever song you land on you have to sing. Spencer Reid lands on a Disney classic.

“What game do you think we’ll be playing tonight?” You asked Spencer as he drove, navigating his way to Rossi’s. 

“Hm. Maybe charades? Those videos are always fun to re-watch when we aren’t drunk anymore.” He answered your question.

“Hotch does film everything, and so does Garcia.” You comment. 

“Yes but they do it for different reasons. Hotch does it for blackmail, Garcia does it because she loves us.” Spencer points out as he pulled into the driveway. 

He got out of the car, and before you could open your door he ran over and opened it for you. You giggled at his gesture and unbuckled your seatbelt. 

“Why thank you Spence.” You stepped out of the car and kissed his cheek. He held your small hand tight in his much larger one. 

Spencer lead you both to the door and opened it, he let you go in first. On the couch sat Morgan and Garcia, they sat close and were clearly having a little flirt battle. Emily, Rossi, and Jennifer looked to be setting up a game that required a wheel. Hotch talked to them as they did it and wrote down rules. Once Spencer shut the door Garcia stopped the flirt session and greeted you with,

“Pretty girl and pretty boy made it!” Which made everyone look up from what they were doing and acknowledge the two of you. You took the seats across from Garcia and Morgan, Rossi went back into his kitchen and got glasses.

“I’ll be right back, i’m going to help Rossi with drinks.” You patted Spencer’s thigh and got up. You talked with Rossi and helped organize drinks and such. Spencer however observed what a few of his co-workers were doing. Emily had sat up a wheel, Emily had set up a microphone with a stand, and Hotch plugged in some cords to an extension cord. That’s when he realized the game was some sort of karaoke. 

“Everyone sit around, we’ve got drinks!.” You yelled out with a happy tone. 

Everyone took seats around the room as you and Rossi passed out drinks and sat others on the coffee table and dining room table. As drinks flowed and conversations continued on and off within groups Garcia rose from her seat.

“Okay my loves, it’s looks like game time.” 

“Do the honors of explaining princess.” Morgan raised his glass at her with a wink. 

“So, you spin the wheel and this spinner will land on a song. Then the person who is DJ will play the karaoke version and you’ll sing. The person who is in the DJ seat will go next and pick a DJ after them.” She sat down in the DJ seat and picked Morgan as her victim. 

The wheel spun and landed on “Love Story by Taylor Swift”. He groaned and looked more than embarrassed. 

“I don’t even know the words!” He said, making an attempt to get out of it.

“Uh huh sure you don’t hot stuff.” Garcia retorted and turned on the music. 

He started off shaky and made up a lot of his own words and tried to read the words on the computer screen in front of him. But then the chorus hit and he knew every word. He danced around Garcia, even got down on one knee and sung his heart out. Eventually the end chorus came and he went down to Hotch who was the camera man and began to sing,

“I talked to your dad go pick out a white dress.”

He was definitely pretty drunk. After he was done the crowd went wild and gave him high fives and more drinks. 

“Kill it princess.” He handed the mic to Garcia.

“Y/N cmon you’re my DJ sugar.” You laughed and got up from your seat. 

Garcia spun the wheel, “Any Man of Mine By Shania Twain”. 

“Hit it!” She pointed at you and you started the music. Without a second thought she walked over to Morgan and started singing right at him. She was all over him and all up on him. Then she moved on to Rossi, who laughed so hard his alcohol came out his nose. She put on an amazing show. And then it was your turn. 

You looked at the wheel and saw a fun array of songs. They were written so tiny on small slivers paper attached to a wheel. You spun and landed in the Disney section, “I Won’t Say I’m In Love from Hercules.” 

“My DJ is Spencer.” He buried his head in his hands and shook his head. He shot you a glare when he looked up to see you as you gave him the come here motion with your finger. He reluctantly got up and sat at in the DJ chair. With some anger he hit the button and the music started. Man did you put on a good show.

You started by walking away with the microphone, and used the girls as the muses. Anytime apart of the song would come up when you needed back up singers you pointed the microphone towards them and sometimes even the boys. You danced around the living room until the end. You remembered in the movie how she laid on the rock. So, you made your way up to Spencer and laid down across his lap for the last line of the song. He blushed so hard and covered one hand with his face. You stood up as the song turned off. 

“Alright Spencer spin.”

“Do I really have to play this game.” He hadn’t risen out of the DJ chair. 

“Do it for me. Come on!” You gave him a pouty lip and held his hand. The rest of the gang shouted things like do it for your girl, pretty boy cmon, spencer!!

He let out a sigh and got up to spin the wheel. You let go of his hand and sat down. With the spin of the wheel he said 

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

“What did you get Spencer?” You asked him as you sat down.

“Part of Your World from The Little Mermaid.” 

Everyone burst into laughter as he sighed and shook his head. 

“Pick your DJ.” Morgan said through laughs.

“Hotch.” 

Hotch stood up and handed the camera to Morgan who was more than happy to film this. Hotch started the music and Spencer started in. It was incredible. He started out and stood still, barely saying anything. But then, oh but then, he started to feel better. And with his tone deaf singing voice he got into it. He came down to you and serenated you with the song and his voice cracks. He got down on his knees and touched your face and sung his heart out. Everyone was laughing, and you all started singing along with your tone deaf lover. When he was done he handed the microphone to Hotch. 

“That was amazing Spencer.” You pulled him back down into the seat next to you and gave him a big kiss. 

“You owe me.” 

And then Hotch started singing and oh boy..

[yourfinalbow]

Ack anon I'm sorry. Tumblr ate your ask and I'm 🔪 But I saved your ask to put on the Google Doc so don't fret! I have it!

“Hi Ghastie Ghast, I wanted to share a prompt with you lol. I decided to go more holiday theme’d because it’s never too early to get into the holiday spirit.

“Your favorite winter drink was back on the menu, so I decided to surprise you with it.”

Please enjoy this prompt lmao”

The nickname made me -_- but hi Little Gray Circle Dude With Sunglasses! Thank you for sending me this! I had fun writing it. I'm assuming you wanted a Destiel fic, so that's what I wrote! (Also bonus points for Saileen as a background ship?) I sort of strayed a little from the prompt and the tone gets heavier as it goes on… 👀 I also accidentally wrote more than intended, so you can read it on Ao3 if that's easier. (And maybe give it a kudos because you’re the best?)

Title: Black Coffee Derangement Syndrome

Ship(s): Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy.

(Basic) Tags: Fluff, Slight Angst, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker, Established Dean/Cas, Established Sam/Eileen, Using black coffee as a metaphor for hypermasculinity, With a whip cream style topping of internalized homophobia. *Finger guns.*

Warnings: Coffee gatekeeping and small sections of fluff that are as sweet as Cas’s Starbucks order. Also I’ve been to Starbucks once. Maybe twice? (Also a single mention of a drug that's commonly found as white powder, the non-descriptive comparison of Sam’s stupid health stuff with emesis, and use of the name that the figurehead for Germany in WW2 bore, just to be safe.)

Rating: T? Maybe? For language?

Word Count: 9k+

Quick thanks to my awesome beta @walksinstarllight! They are a poet and a writing sorcerer (wizard without a hat), and the only reason this fic even makes sense so please go shower them in kudos. (You can find their work here.)

Another thanks to @internetintroverts, who described a peppermint mocha to me in like 300 words because I drink black coffee and know nothing of anything ever. You can find their work here! (There's an Easter egg of one of their fics in this one hehe.)

The first thing Dean did when Cas got back from the Empty was give him coffee.

Okay no.

The first thing he did was fall into Cas’s arms and grip that stupid trenchcoat until his knuckles turned white. Shaking and laughing with hot tears streaming out of his eyes, he told him he was an asshole for leaving him like that. And to never, ever do it again. With blurry eyes and all other thoughts hazy, he told Cas he could have it, he could have what he wanted. Whatever he wanted. He told Cas he loved him too.

But then the next thing was coffee.

Caffeine is a hunter’s number one best friend, and since Cas was human again, Dean knew Sam was going to come at him with his stupid green health drinks and herbal tea. As Cas’s knight in shining armour, (a title used by Dean and Dean only), it was his duty to protect him from the disgustingly liquified rabbit food.

Now he expected Cas to like black coffee, you know, like a normal person.

But no, oh no. Apparently, he was dating a heathen.

Dean had to actually rub his eyes the first time he watched Cas fix his own coffee. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, mouth agape.

Cas was leaning on the counter, humming some song that Dean could neither recognize, nor would he approve of, thank-you-very-much.

(Ok it was Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift and it's entirely possible he's listened to it once or twice but he still doesn't approve of it, thank-you-very-much.)

He held his yellow and black striped, bee-themed ceramic mug Eileen had bought him in one hand, and the entire five-pound bag of cane sugar in the other. And there he stood, happy as can be, pouring it directly into his mug.

Dean rubbed his eyes again.

And not even like, a normal amount either.

He just kept pouring, and pouring, and Oh my god he’s still pouring. Dean thought. It would honestly be more believable if it wasn’t sugar at all, and instead was in fact Cas’s secret stash of cocaine.

Dean might actually have to put sugar on the grocery list after he was finished.

His thoughts traveled back to Ishim doing the same thing with his coffee, in the tiny little diner Cas had set up as a meeting place. Dean had barged in that day, not thinking of his brother mocking him, or the possibility of danger inside. His vision was as tunneled as his thoughts  focused only on Cas, not caring about anything else.

By that time the following day, Dean thought they were both going to die. The bloody and uneven sigil on the wall, Cas no more than ten feet away. Not quite within a comforting reach. The room was spinning from the blow to his head, and he could barely make out the words being spat from Ishim’s mouth.

“You blast me away, you’ll blast away every angel in the room. I’ll survive. Castiel, on the other hand, he’s hurt. He might live, or he might just end up a bloody smear on the wall.”

He almost lost Cas that day.

The blood rushed to his ears as his instincts sought out the mark on the wall. Ishim had told him to roll the dice, but in his head he couldn’t look past the chance of rolling a one. Watching the acrylic cube bounce until it decided Cas’s fate. There was no dilemma, there wasn’t even a decision to be made. He would always choose Cas over himself. Silent acts of care he could never vocalize.

An inability to speak formed from fear and cowardice. Like a lion in his stomach scratching at the words until they fell back down his throat.

And it was that inability to speak that led Cas to think he was nothing more than a tool for the Winchester’s to use.

He almost let Cas believe he meant nothing to him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Mornin’ Sunshine.”

Cas set down the bag of sugar and picked up the pot, the glass making a small clink as it hit the top of the coffee maker. “Goodmorning Dean. Would you like any coffee?” He greeted cheerfully, turning around like he hadn't just put enough sugar to make a pound cake in his coffee.

“Uh.” Dean was still caught off-guard by Willie Wonka over there. “Sure Cas.” He took the coffee pot from his hand and muttered a thank you.

“So,” Cas started while Dean reached into the cabinet for his own mug. “What ingredient do you suggest I put in my coffee this morning?”

“Uh...I don't know man. I drink my coffee black.”

“Yes I know you’re boring Dean, but you can still help me not be.”

“Black coffee isn't boring it's-”

“Dean, if you say ‘manly,’ I will sit you down and make you eat only spinach and kale for a week.” Sam said, walking into the kitchen, hair still spiked up from sleep. He used one hand to sign the words, his other one occupied by Eileen, who was sleepily shuffling closely behind.

Dean looked aghast. “I would starve.” He attempted to sign his indignant response, hands moving sloppily while holding both his mug and the coffee pot.

“I think that's the point.” Eileen said, laughing. She looked at Cas. “Is Dean gatekeeping your coffee aspirations again?”

“Yes.” He answered, ignoring Sam’s laugh and Dean’s huff of exaggerated outrage.

“Have you tried cinnamon?” Sam suggested. “You like Dean’s apple pie, and that has cinnamon in it.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Sam. Dean told me not to ever take cooking advice from you.“

“And I stand by that.” Dean interjected suddenly.

“I can cook!”

“Ehhh…” Eileen’s comment bought her a look of betrayal. “Though Sam may be right on this one, you might like it.” She shrugged.

“See.”

Cas pondered the thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will then.”

“Do we have nutmeg?” Eileen said, breaking away from Sam’s grip to check one of the cabinets. He walked to the other side of the kitchen, intending to look through the spice rack, knowing exactly what his girlfriend was getting at.

“You better not mess up my damn kitchen.” He said quickly. “Or you're organising them all next time.”

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing full well Dean would never let him organise the kitchen. Eileen looked through them, carefully turning the bottles around until the labels faced her. She pulled out the cinnamon and clove while she was looking for the nutmeg.

“Found it.” Sam called from the other side of the kitchen, walking over and putting a hand on Eileen’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” She said with a smile, grabbing the plastic spice jars.

She individually tossed each one to Cas. “Use these, it will taste like a pumpkin spice latte.”

“And don't forget the milk.” Sam added.

Cas scrambled to catch the spices, successfully grabbing two of them out of the air, the third one intercepted by Dean.

“What’s a pumpkin spice latte?” He looked at Eileen before snatching the bottle of cinnamon from Dean.

“It's a famous drink you can get at Starbucks.” Sam answered.

Cas tilted his head to the side and squinted at him. “What's a Starbucks?”

“You know, the coffee shop Alex and Patience drag Jody to all the time.” Dean said.

“I’m pretty sure Donna drags her there too.” Sam added. “Something about girl’s date night out.”

“The one Claire says is for ‘basic bitches’?” He lifted his hands, forming air quotes as he spoke.

“Yeah.” Dean answered, quietly laughing. “That's the one. She’s probably right, too.”

Cas carefully put the different spices in his coffee, eyeing the mug warily. His light brown coffee now had specs of...stuff in it.

(And unbeknownst to him, there was also a small pile of sugar at the bottom, the coffee so saturated it wouldn't dissolve any more.)

Eileen laughed at the look on his face. “It's good, I promise.”

Sam turned to look at her. “How would you know? Most of the time you get hot chocolate and spike it with bourbon.”

“You’re the one who gets a Pink Drink.”

Dean choked on his coffee. “What?”

“It's strawberry and coconut milk, and it's delicious.”

“Sure it is Sam.” Eileen jabbed.

“So what I'm getting here is that not only have you two been to Starbucks often enough to have a regular order, but Sam gets something called a ‘Pink Drink’?”

“No…” Sam started, trying to find a way to defend them. “Sometimes we…”

“...Make our own drinks.” Eileen snapped her fingers as she finished for him, attempting to save them from the endless stream of good-natured insults Dean would throw at them otherwise.

“Well you two are a real Martha Stewart, aren't you?”

“Yeah, except she's a convicted criminal.” Sam attempted to snark back.

“So are you!”

Before either of them could respond, Cas shoved his mug into Dean's face. “You have to try this, Dean. It tastes like pumpkin pie.”

Dean carefully grabbed the hot mug from Cas and took a sip. He was right, it did taste kinda like pumpkin pie. He took another sip, letting the pleasant flavor sit on his tongue. The different spices mixed perfectly together.

“I mean it's… okay.” He lied.

Dean contemplated his pumpkin themed food options. “Though I would rather just have pumpkin pie.”

Cas took his mug back. “Fine. More for me.” He said with a smirk, mimicking the look Dean gives him every time Cas says he doesn't want anymore bacon, before taking another sip of the makeshift pumpkin spice coffee.

Dean smiled at him, setting his own mug down and moving Cas’s out of the way to pull him into a kiss. He could smell the nutmeg almost as much as he could taste the cinnamon on his lips.

“Mmm we should bake pumpkin pie tonight.” He said, pulling away just enough so he could talk.

“I would like that.” Cas answered. “All four of us could make pie. According to the 'mom blogs', as you call them, it would be a good family bonding exercise.”

“That’s right. And if they want any pie, they gotta help make it. That means more for us if they refuse.” He grinned.

“A win-win situation, really.” Cas smiled before tugging Dean close so their lips met again.

“I love you.” Dean muttered.

“I love you too.” Cas said softly.

Behind their backs Sam and Eileen were fake-gagging at their sickly sweet interaction, but secretly just glad the two of them had finally gotten over their stubborn (and oblivious) selves.

Sam was honestly overjoyed to see his brother finally happy. He would even go as far as saying finally willing to be himself, too. (Not that he would ever say this outloud. Sam can practically see Dean’s eyes roll farther back into his head than should be possible at the words.) All four of them had gone through more shit in the last few months than any normal person would in their entire life. They were all just lucky to be alive, and with that, learning how to savour the little moments of overly sweet normalcy.

(And the pumpkin spice-life Dean had secretly been longing for since they were little kids.)

So of course they were going to help bake pie.

---

“I want to try Starbucks.” Cas said the next morning, both of them still in bed.

Dean groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Can I ask why, or is this one of those, 'I'll tell you later’ disasters like with the slime ingredients?”

“I want to try all the human things that I didn't get to try last time.” He said offhandedly.

Dean pictured Cas’s hurt face when he had told him he couldn’t stay, smile broken as Dean’s own heart shattered from the look the newly-human angel was giving him.

He wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, that Cas himself wasn’t the reason, but the lion in his stomach clawed the words down faster than even the thought of ruining Sam’s chances at survival could.

With a pang of guilt from the memory, Dean pulled himself closer to Cas and rested his head on the other man’s chest. He wrapped his arms around him, trying to preserve as much warmth and comfort as he could until they had to inevitably get out of bed. “Only if you let me sleep like this for thirty more minutes.”

Cas smiled. “Oh, are we making deals now?”

“I’d sell my soul for you.” Dean said cheekily, which earned a glare from Cas. “Believe me, I know.”

After a beat he went on. “Fine, you have a deal.” Before Dean could celebrate by tugging the covers over their bodies, Cas added another clause to their agreement. “But... in true Crowley fashion, you have to seal the deal with a kiss.”

Dean lazily threw his arms into the air. “Victory.”

He turned over, pulling himself upwards until he was just inches from Cas. Cradling the angel-turned-Winchester’s head in his hands, Dean placed his lips on Cas’s, melting into the touch as he felt the other man’s arms wrap around his torso.

When he broke away from the kiss, Dean found himself face to face with the most beautiful smile he had ever laid eyes on, one born from adoration and love. Cas’s eyebrows were slightly scrunched up, but for once it wasn’t a sign of confusion when met with some obscure eighties rock reference. It was a tiny expression of care, and it was one that was truly Cas. Not Jimmy’s, not even one Cas had picked up from him or Sam. It was completely and wholly Cas, and a completely and wholly human thing to do.

He realized Cas had been doing that long before the Empty stole his grace.

Dean smiled back at him, relaxed. Like taking in a deep breath after being under murky water for forty years. He brushed a loose strand of soft, brown hair into its place, before falling back into his spot and closing his eyes. “Crowley would be proud.” He whispered with a soft laugh, smile deepening as Cas joined him.

When their quiet laughter died out, there was a pause, air stagnant and in its own sleepy haze

“Oh and Dean?”

“Hm?” Dean turned his head to look at him, eyes not failing to glow with their unusually bright, green pigment. He took a deep breath, the lids of his eyes already started to slowly fall back down again.

“The slime wasn't a disaster. You enjoyed it.”

“I did.” He muttered sleepily, a loose smile forming on his lips as he drifted off to sleep. Cas laid there, running his fingers through the other man’s hair, contentment and admiration showing itself in every feature on his face.

This was more than he could have ever wanted.

---

“Dean. Dean wake up.” Cas was excitedly whisper-shouting in his ear like a kid on Christmas morning. It was exactly thirty minutes later, (he had counted), and Cas was ready to get moving.

“No.” He answered back, mimicking Cas’s tone.

“But you’re like a cat.” He teased. “You're on me and I can't get up.”

Dean sighed. “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

“It didn't take much convincing.”

Dean rolled over to give Cas a playful glare, but was met with the saddest puppy dog eyes he had ever seen, completely throwing him off his guard.

“I'm going to kill Sam for teaching you that.”

Cas just continued to give him that look.

“Fine.” Dean relented, sitting up with a yawn and thinking about how he will now never be able to win another argument.

“Get dressed.” Cas said excitedly. “We're going to Starbucks.”

“Hooray.” He gave a sarcastic laugh, but a smile creeped on his lips.

They walked out of their room together, heading towards the bunker’s library. Dean slid in one of the chairs, turning Sam’s still-open laptop around and waking it up.

Cas, meanwhile, turned to a random page of the lore book resting on the table and started reading in an attempt to pass the time.

The sound of Dean typing filled the air. “So, I just looked it up, and do we have to go to Starbucks?”

“Yes.” Cas said simply, not looking up from the book.

Dean groaned. “Cas there isn't one in the county, let alone Lebanon. That's probably why Sam and Eileen make their own.”

“Where's the closest one?” Cas asked, his blinding, blue eyes glaring at the back of Sam’s computer like he was trying to will the coffee shop to be near.

“I thought it was across state lines and in Nebraska at first, but it looks like there's a small one in a town called Washington. It's about 80 miles from here.”

“Let's go!” Cas excitedly straightened his trenchcoat and headed towards the door.

“Or, we could leave Starbucks to the fourteen year old girls.”

Cas turned back around and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure their entire demographic is fourteen year old girls, staff included.”

Alright, smartass. Dean thought, struggling to hide a smile.

Cas walked out the door, expecting Dean to follow.

“It takes an hour to get there, our coffee’s going to be cold by the time we get home, and it's freezing outside.” Dean muttered under his breath, but he grabbed his keys off the table and stood up, willing to follow Cas to the ends of the earth if it meant he would stay with him.

Not that he was going to enjoy this trip. In fact, he was currently doing the opposite of enjoying, and they hadn’t even gotten into the car yet. Starbucks. Starbucks. Really, Cas? Of all the places he wanted to go, it had to be Starbucks. He couldn’t want to explore humanity through Target or something?

Even Claire wouldn’t be caught dead in that place, with all the frou-frou toppings, elaborate drink mixes, and colourful, drizzled syrup. The people who go to Starbucks are the kind of people who like coffee that doesn’t taste like coffee. Teenage girls who might as well just be drinking whip cream, and that was without considering the seasonal drinks they fawn over.

Seasonal drinks that shouldn’t legally be allowed to be referred to as coffee.

Dean couldn’t believe he ever agreed to this, but still, he begrudgingly followed.

---

Using the GPS on Cas’s phone, (Dean said his insane directional skills helped out too), they found the Starbucks relatively easily once they were in the little town.

They parked the Impala, and Dean looked at the modern building. The green lettering contrasted with the tan plaster walls, spelling “Starbucks.”

He heard Cas get out, his feet making a crunching noise as they hit the gravel, and watched from across the top of the car as he started towards the coffee shop. Dean looked at the building warily, reluctance painted on his face.

Cas was telling him some random fact about a bird he saw, but Dean could only think about his reputation that was about to shatter like a vase dropping on tile floor.

Reputation with who? He didn't know.

Well, he had a vague idea, but chose not to let his thoughts wander that far.

It was okay. This was fine. He could swallow his pride and-

“Ooh. The peppermint mocha looks good.” Cas was reading the limited edition drinks on the drive-thru menu as they traveled across the parking lot.

Dean was going to barf.

They walked into the building, immediately hit with the overwhelming smell of excessive amounts of flavoured syrup indoused coffee. Dean glanced around the well-lit building, taking note of the many different people there.

(He wasn’t about to have any black-eyed minions reporting his Starbucks order to a very judgmental Queen of Hell.)

Cas pushed Dean’s protesting body into the line, looking pleased with the many different options written on the menu overhead.

He enjoyed the small touch of Cas’s hands on his back, moving him forwards to the line, but was grateful Cas was careful not to let them linger there too long.

He was still wary about doing… this, in public.

He knew Cas was patiently waiting for him to be ready, so he didn't know how to tell him that he might never be.

The teenager working the cash register interrupted his train of thought. “What will it be for ya?”

“I would like a peppermint mocha please.”

“Alrighty. And you?”

“I'll take just a black coffee.”

The barista looked unimpressed. “And your names?”

Dean grinned. “John and John.”

“No relation.” Cas added.

The barista just sighed. “How do you want me to differentiate the two of ‘em then?”

“Oh you can put ‘John Bonham’ on mine.” Dean replied.

“Comin’ right up.” Their tone didn't change, still just full of apathy that could only be perfected by the work of a burnt-out teenager.

Dean and Cas walked down to the end of the counter and towards the pickup section. “Now tell me, Castiel.” He stressed his partner’s name. “Who’s John Bonham?”

Cas sighed, but the corner of his mouth upturned in a grin. “John Henry Bohnham, affectionately referred to as ‘Bonzo’, born in 1948 and was most well known for being the drummer of the rock band ‘Led Zeppelin’.”

“Mmm very close, but unfortunately you forgot the word ‘best’ in front of ‘rock band.’” Dean smirked before leaning in for a chaste kiss.

“You should have said I was ‘John Bon Jovi.’” Cas said, smiling.

“Why? Because you’re only good at this sometimes?” Dean closed the gap between them.

As soon as their lips met, Dean pulled away instinctively, realization hitting him like a hunter with a bat as his eyes widened in terror. “I-I'm sorry, I didn’t...” His words faltered as he looked around at the people sitting in the coffee shop, all of which were paying no mind to them.

He felt sick, guilt gnawing at him from a pit in his stomach.

“Hey, it's okay Dean. You know I'm perfectly fine with public displays of affection, and no one else even saw us. There's no need to apologize.”

“Yeah-h.” He said shakily. Before he could figure out who he was apologizing to, a voice from behind the counter called.

“I have an order for a mister ‘John’ and ‘John Bonham’.”

“That's us.” Dean spat the words out quickly, turning around to take them from the barista’s hand. He rushed out of the door, the small tinkling sound of the welcome bell and the blood rushing to his ears drowning out the sound of Cas’s call from behind.

He sat in the front seat of Baby, knowing he was being childish. Dean took a shaky breath and tried not to think about it.

About what the hell he was thinking, kissing Cas out in public like that. The judgemental eyes- black or not- that were watching. He thought about what his father would say, mind instantly going back to a moment in his childhood he has tried to forget since it happened, wondering where he went wrong.

About the time John had caught him and Lee, ignoring the weak excuses Dean was stuttering out. Skipping town faster than they had done in years.

About how the left side of his face had been a yellow-ish purple for weeks following, and the sore spot on his arm from where he caught the pavement as he flew towards it.

About how he had told Sam he just fell on a hunt. “Don't worry kid, you should have seen the vamp when I was done with him.” He swung his fist around in slow motion, pretending to punch an invisible enemy as his little brother giggled in childish bliss.

About how John never looked at him the same. The disgust in his eyes, harsh words on his lips.

About how he vowed to never disappoint his father like that again, and their joint hatred for that part of him. Sometimes it felt like the only thing they could agree on.

About how somewhere, somehow, he had decided Cas was different. That he somehow didn’t count, and that losing him hurt so much, was such an egregious pain, he wanted as much of Cas as he was allowed to have. And how that was something insurmountable stronger than the twisted, sick feeling John had placed in his gut.

He remembered something Cas had told him once: “Hatred isn’t a natural trait, Dean, it’s a learned one. A baby isn’t born with the ability to hate, it’s passed on from one broken soul to another. Love, love however. That’s something different altogether.”

Cas’s hand on his shoulder pulled Dean out of his thoughts. “Hey.” He said softly.

“Hey Cas.”

“I love you.” He got in the passenger's seat, taking his coffee from Dean’s still frozen hand.

“I love you too.” He whispered absentmindedly, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing but thoughts from the past. His mind fighting an internal battle, logic telling him that what he had with Cas wasn’t wrong, and even though everything from fate to God had tried to wedge itself between them, it was still the most right thing he had. And he knew that, but his dad’s drunken, booming voice echoed throughout his head, telling him that he was dirty. Telling him the Winchester men had no place for someone like him.

“You better stop that now, boy. Bad things happen to you when you’re weak.”

At the time he had taken that as a warning, rather than a threat. But now Dean wasn’t so sure.

It’s not even that his Dad was particularly religious. He wasn’t told that it was a sin, or that he was going to Hell. Though it’s not like that particular statement would have been wrong. He thought with a bitter laugh.

While the thoughts in his head were screaming mercilessly, the drive home was in a simple silence. The only noise being Cas’s occasional sip, and the sound of soft fabric rubbing against skin as Cas moved his hand in small, comforting motions against Dean's back.

When they got to the bunker, Cas, who was genuinely impressed that Dean managed to drive them home without crashing into a tree, pulled Dean out of the car and gently shook him out of his self-imposed stupor.

“Your coffee's cold.” Cas said with a laugh.

Dean blinked a couple times, clearing the fog from his mind, before laughing along with him. “And who’s fault is that? You were the one who insisted on traveling across the state to get it.”

“Do you want some of mine?” Cas asked. “There's a little bit left, and I held it next to the heater. It should still be lukewarm.”

“No thanks, Cas. I can go make some in the kitchen.”

“But what if I want you to try it?” Dean glared at him. “Don't make me do Sam’s ‘puppy dog eyes’ again.”

“Okay, okay. You win.” He put his hands up, mimicking a surrender. “I'll try some of your stupid, Christmas cookie, candy-cane flavoured coffee thing or whatever.” They started walking towards the entrance to the bunker.

“Peppermint mocha?”

“That's the one.”

Cas laughed at him.

“Oh just, give it here.” Dean said. He took a long sip from the disposable cup. He could taste a vague hint of whipped cream mixed in with the coffee, its light fluffy texture sticking to the last swallow of smooth liquid in the bottom of the cup. The chocolate and espresso rested on his tongue, and the peppermint was strong and refreshing. He took another sip.

“Does that face mean you like it?”

Dean looked at him guiltily. “No.” He opened the bunker’s door and started walking down the metal stairs.

“Yes you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“You took a second sip.”

Dean reached the bottom of the stairs first, and walked over to the War Room table to set both coffee cups and his keys down.

“So? I was trying to make sure I properly understood the flavour. Since when is that a crime?”

“You wanted to properly understand a flavour you didn't like?” Cas walked up to Dean and pulled the nearest chair out to sit down.

“What are you two arguing about this time?” Eileen asked from the library.

Cas clenched both of his hands into fists, putting the right one on top of the other. He made small, circular, stirring motions with his right hand. “Coffee.” He signed swiftly, movements fluid.

“Ah. That makes sense.” She spoke the words.

“What makes sense?” Sam asked, walking in from one of the hallways, making sure Eileen could see his lips before speaking.

“They're arguing over coffee again.”

Sam glanced at both of them, before his eyes reached the two cups on the War Room table.

“Wait a second… Dean?” He looked at his brother, before turning to face his best friend. “Cas?”

“Yes, Sam?” Cas answered.

“Did you two go to Starbucks?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Dean grumbled.

“Yes, we did!” Cas sounded way too excited to be referring to coffee. “I got a peppermint mocha, and Dean tried some and liked it.”

“I did not.”

“I don't care what coffee you like, Dean. What I do care about is that you went all the way to Starbucks, and didn't bother to ask if we wanted to come.”

“Not cool Dean.” Eileen walked in, shaking her head and hiding a smile.

“I might have thought about buying you two drinks, but there was no way I was ordering yours with a straight face.” He looked at Sam. “And it's an hour away, they wouldn't have been hot or cold or whatever they're supposed to be by the time we got here.”

“Well then we'll just have to go back, all four of us.” Eileen put simply.

“It's an hour away.”

“We know.” Sam added.

“Let me say that again, in case you weren’t listening. It's an hour away. For coffee. That isn't even that good.”

“I beg to differ, Dean.” Cas said.

“Yeah I'm definitely with Cas on this one.” Eileen agreed while Sam nodded along.

“No. There's no way I'm getting back in Baby to drive all the way to Starbucks again.”

“Fine. We’ll go get our own.”

“With what car?” Dean said, very sure of himself.

Sam snatched Baby’s keys off the war room table, which in hindsight was probably something Dean should have expected.

“Let's hope Sam doesn't have too many shots of espresso.” Eileen said, faking concern. “I would hate for your baby to pay the price.”

“Fine. I'll drive you.” Dean grumbled while Eileen double fist-pumped her win.

Cas looked very pleased with the thought of getting to try more coffee.

---

They left shortly after, the drive over painful for everyone except Dean, who listened to the same four songs on repeat the entire hour.

(It’s their own fault, really.)

---

“Can we please listen to something other than Bob Seger on the trip home?” Sam complained as he slammed shut the door to Baby’s backseat.

“You’re just mad you didn’t get shotgun.” Dean said, closing his own door. “Besides, driver picks the music, everyone else shuts their cakehole.” Sam mouthed the words along with Dean, having heard the speech a million times before.

Eileen and Cas got out, neither one of them had any desire to input on their squabble, and were instead engaged in their own, quieter discussion.

Both brothers continued to argue until they walked into the Starbucks.

“Ah. There's the scent of overpriced coffee I missed.” Eileen joked as she took her first breath inside the building, using her hand to waft the smell towards her.

“What are you getting?” Cas asked Sam.

“I want my usual, and Eileen, what are you having?”

“Hot chocolate with espresso shots please. This place doesn't sell liquor.” She shook her head sadly and Sam laughed. “Good thing I brought my own.” She winked at them, opening her jacket just enough so they could see the inside pocket and showing off her flask.

“Oh, now that would be a Starbucks I would go to.” Dean said.

“You two wait in line.” Sam pointed to Cas and Dean. “We’ll save a table.”

Dean looked like he wanted to protest, but they walked away before he had the chance. Cas leaned over towards him. “Don't worry. I'll order Sam’s.” He very conspicuously winked.

Dean smiled at his attempts of regular human interaction, before over-the-top winking himself.

“Can you order for us? I need to talk to Sam about something.”

“Sure thing…” Cas had to think before finishing his sentence. “...buckaroo.”

Dean outwardly cringed. “Keep trying, you'll get there eventually.” He patted Cas on the back, which was slightly moving in a chuckle.

It was good to see Cas filled with so much simple joy. Face creased from laughter rather than stress, he seemed so much lighter. Happier. It was only a small sliver of what he deserved, but it was something. Maybe he could live with driving an hour to get what he assumed was half-decent coffee.

“What would you like?” Cas asked him, eyes still filled with a sparkle that only comes from gaining something you thought you lost.

“Uh.” He thought about it for a moment, almost considering branching out into the unexplored terrain that was the dark green menu with small, white text, before shuddering at the thought.

“I think I'll take that expensive black coffee I didn't get earlier.”

Dean was not going to turn into one of those people, if he had any say about it.

Cas walked into the line, leaving Dean to scan the room, furiously waving Sam over when his eyes found their booth.

“Sam.” He sounded like he was trying to whisper, but his volume raised far higher than that. The patron closest to Dean gave him a look before turning back to their work.

“Sam, come here, it's urgent.” His brother turned to look at him, rolling his eyes before getting out of the booth.

“What do you want?” He said once he reached Dean.

“Sam. Help. What do I do?”

“About what?”

“About what kind of coffee Cas is having.”

“Oh god, Dean let it go. He's not going to only ever drink black coffee. Contrary to popular belief, former angels do actually have souls.”

Dean ignored the implications that he didn't have a soul, too distracted by Cas. “But look.” He motioned his head towards where Cas was standing, next in line to order. “He’s eyeing the weird fruity drinks.”

“Dean. It's Cas. The man’s favorite food is PB&J. What did you expect him to have, taste?”

“Alright that's rich coming from mister Pinkity Drinkity or whatever the fuck.”

“You walked into a Starbucks and ordered black coffee, I don't think I'm the wrong one here.”

“Wait, wait. Shut up. Quiet.” He hit Sam on the shoulder in a childish attempt at getting him to stop talking so he could listen.

“Ow. That hurt.” Sam muttered, before turning to watch Cas, which Dean was already doing.

“I would like to try a…” Cas methodically scanned the menu again. “A ‘Passion Tango Iced Tea,’ please.” The barista took no mind to the excessive air quotes.

“It's not even coffee.” Dean said to Sam, clearly distraught. He turned to look back at Cas.

“And your name sir?”

“Lizzo.”

Dean threw his arms up into the air. “I can't believe this is the man I love.” His voice cracked like he was holding in tears of anguish from listening to Cas order.

Sam just rolled his eyes at the theatrics. Right, and he’s the dramatic one.

“Aw. You're in love.” Sam held his hands up, forming a heart and mocking his brother.

“Oh shut up. What are you, seven?”

“Is Cas your gay thing?”

“You shut your mo-”

“What are we gossiping about?” Eileen whispered, cutting Dean off and causing them both to jump.

“We're not gossiping.” Sam said indignantly.

“Sam started it.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“This is where I call you two ‘asshats’, right?”

“It's ‘assbutt.’” Cas said, walking up to them and catching the tail end of their conversation. “And that's my line.”

Cas handed them each their drinks, before excitedly trying his own. He put the plastic cup up to his mouth, almost missing the straw. When he swallowed the cranberry-colored liquid, his face relaxed in pleasure.

“I know this one isn't coffee, but it's really good.”

“We didn't get coffee either.” Eileen said. “So don't worry, Dean's the odd man out here.”

Dean glared at her before trying his own coffee, and well, it was coffee. The point of buying expensive caffeine still went straight over his head.

The four of them went over to their thankfully-still-available booth and sat down. Dean and Cas sat on one side, both instinctively choosing the side that faced the door, with Sam and Eileen sliding into the seats directly across from them. They sat there, talking about nothing in particular, and certainly nothing of importance, before falling into the natural art of storytelling.

Aside from killing monsters, that’s what hunters did best. Sitting around and sharing stories. As tiring and dangerous as their lives were, some hunts were worth sharing exaggerated and hyperbolic versions of, especially over drinks.

Sam’s favourite story to tell changed every time, and one would almost be inclined to believe that most of it wasn't real, but the wildest parts also caused the most merriment. (Dean pretended he hadn’t witnessed the whole thing, sparing Sam by not telling the other two how it actually went down.)

Eileen shared of her time in Ireland. “Foreign country, foreign monsters.” She said with a wink, telling of creatures neither Sam nor Dean had even read about.

Dean’s favourite story to tell, aside from the fact that he killed Hitler, was the time he got to solve a mystery with everyone’s favorite talking dog. And yeah, all three of the people that sat at the table had heard both many times before, but that didn't matter, it was still enrapturing to hear them again.

Cas had millenniums to choose from, but always found the most interesting hunts to be the ones with the Winchesters. He also had many hilarious stories about his adventures with Crowley, but he was less fond of those.

“I remember once, Dean went on a hunt with Dad.” Sam started. “Nasty vampire, it got a hit or two on Dean. I think you guys went with another hunter. Young. About your age, actually. Uh…”

He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name. “Lee. That's it.” Dean looked up from the coffee right as Sam said it. “Do you remember him?”

Something flashed in Dean’s eyes, but his brother didn't seem to notice.

Cas, who was used to admiring every minute detail of Dean's expression and posture, didn't miss the ever so slight, yet sharp, inhale. Or the way he swallowed before speaking, trying to clear the small lump from his throat.

Dean noticed too, internally rolling his eyes at his own reaction.

“Yeah it's been a while, but I remember him.” Dean was blatantly ignoring Cas’s burning stare from beside him, and the fact that he had stabbed Lee through the chest just last year.

Cas made sure no one was watching before gently placing a hand on Dean’s thigh. Knowing it would comfort him from both intuition and experience. Dean stiffened under the touch, but after realizing no one could see where Cas’s hand was, he visibly relaxed.

“What happened to him?” Eileen asked innocently.

“Oh uh, a hunt I think. Most of us go that way, I assume he was no different.” Technically Dean dealt the final blow, but it was the entrancing call of the monster, greed, and the life Lee and Dean had both secretly wanted, that caused his former-friend’s downfall in the end.

“Yeah.” Sam said solemnly, suddenly lost in his own thoughts, most of which were riddled with grief.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the weight of their many losses wash over them like a tidal wave.

One made of espresso and milk rather than the rough waters of the sea.

---

The ride back was more manageable, Dean allowing them one song choice each, complete with a warning to pick wisely.

(They all very cheekily chose the songs they knew would bother Dean the most.)

---

Full on coffee, cookies Dean bought for them at Starbucks, and brimming with contentment, (as well as the fact that they spent half the day in the car), Cas suggested to Dean that they “hit the hay” as they stepped back into the bunker.

They laid there in silence, breathing in scents of comfort, coffee, and each other, until Cas eventually drifted off to sleep.

Dean, however, continued to lay there. Thinking.

He remembered the first solo case John sent him on.

Something curled inside his gut.

They had been two nuns, their fate a product of hate crime. Put to death for simply being themselves.

Dean didn't blame them for coming back as ghosts.

He remembered the words - ones he would soon learn were slurs - that John would spit out like acid.

Or offhandedly toss like they didn't bear enough weight to shatter the window of a person's self-image.

It had taken him almost forty years to realize that very same window inside of him was in sharp, jagged pieces. Cutting anyone and everyone who came near.

It had taken Cas dying to start picking them up again.

He turned to look at the man next to him, relaxed and blissfully sleeping. His chest moved up and down rhythmically, and Dean slowed his breath to match until he fell into a surprisingly peaceful slumber.

---

When Dean woke up, the other side of his bed was cold.

He didn't panic, knowing full well that Cas probably ran to the bathroom, or was pouring another mountain of sugar in his coffee.

Losing Cas again to the Empty had ripped him apart, but months of spending every night with his partner left him with less nightmares and waking in cold sweats then he had since before Hell.

Dean also learned that his own presence was enough to fight off the demons of solid, black goo that plagued Cas’s head at night.

He was finally starting to understand why life seemed to lose all meaning when Cas was gone, and from there he could slowly start to rebuild both of them.

Dean heard soft padding noises as socked feet walked down the hall, and there was a knock on the bedroom door. "S'your room too, Cas. You don't have to knock." He laughed, words slightly slurred from just waking up

Cas walked in, wielding two mugs of coffee and a proud look shining in his eyes. “I made us coffee.” He said triumphantly, handing one of the mugs to Dean.

“I put chocolate and peppermint in your coffee.”

Dean fake-gasped. “You monster. Ruining the integrity of my drink like that.”

“I'm a human, you ass.” Cas responded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, I know you liked mine yesterday.”

“I did not.” He said, discontentedly crossing his arms. “I only drink coffee that's as black as my soul. Darker than the night sky. Hotter than the bunker’s computer when it overheats. As manly as-”

“Oh, just drink your damn coffee.”

“Fine.” He groused. “But I'm not enjoying it.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at him, before setting his mug on the bedside table and sitting down behind Dean. The bed creaked underneath him as he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist. “Is this why you and Sam never use umbrellas?” He joked.

Dean laughed.

Cas rested his head on the crook of Dean’s neck and whispered. “You know you don't have to pretend.”

“Pretend what?” Dean asked softly.

“You know.”

“That I don’t like flavoured coffee?” He said with a snort.

“Sort of.” Cas hugged him tighter. “No one’s going to think any less of you Dean. You’re allowed to like the things you like.”

“I know.” He resigned.

“John isn't here anymore.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” The words barely came out as a whisper, hot tears betraying Dean’s eyes as they silently leaked out and ran down his cheeks.

He tried to wipe the tears away, hearing his Dad’s voice in his head and knowing he was being stupid.

Dean couldn't help but think of himself as a small, living-room window, from an old, dilapidated house. Stained yellow with age. Cracking from wear.

He let the drumming of his Dad’s words in his head be drowned out by Cas’s voice.

He couldn't unwrap the fuzz from around him, so he didn't know what Cas was saying, ears seemingly filled with cotton. It was just the knowledge alone that he was there. That he was holding him and whispering comforting words into his ear. That even as a human he could heal Dean at his lowest points, and still see him as the brightest, strongest, soul.

You don't really know what a picture is going to be until it's done.

Maybe that window is a beautiful stained-glass portrait.

“Uh.” Dean cleared his throat. “What-what do you have?” He indicated Cas’s coffee by angling his head towards where it sat on the nightstand.

“I made iced coffee.”

Dean just looked at him, astounded, eyes widening. “You mean it’s not hot?”

“Yes, that's where the ‘iced’ in ‘iced coffee’ comes from.” He said very seriously.

They both sat in silence for the next hour, peacefully drinking their coffee and enjoying the presence of one another.

---

When they got out of bed and ventured into the rest of the bunker, they found Sam and Eileen in the library.

They were sitting in adjacent chairs, with Eileen laying her head on Sam’s shoulder and reaching for her water bottle on the table. They were reading a book together, but Eileen shook Sam indicating she had seen them walk in.

“Goodmorning.” She greeted cheerfully.

“Mornin’.” Dean pulled up a chair across from them, and watched as Cas did the same.

“What are you two reading?” Cas asked.

“The Men of Letters’s Bestiary.” Sam said.

Dean snorted. “Ah. Doing a little light reading are we?”

“We're thinking about filling in some of the pages.” Eileen added.

“Yeah, for all of the stuff they have here, it's surprisingly empty.” Sam continued flipping through some of the pages, most of which were blank.

“Heh. I should put you in that thing, Cas.”

Cas let out a laugh. “Right. Because I’m a good example of an angel.” The sarcasm was masking something else in his voice.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’ve always been my favourite angel.” Dean only realised how sappy he sounded after it came out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the rest of them are dicks.” Eileen added.

Cas smiled at that, seemingly back to normal.

“Right, well you three can do that, I'm off to the Dean Cave.”

“Or…” Sam started.

“We could go back to Starbucks.” Cas finished, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Yeah... that's not where I was going with that, but I like where your head’s at, Cas. We should definitely go back.”

“Eileen?” He asked.

“Hell yeah.”

“Dean?”

Dean pressed his mouth into a thin line and glared at him. “Yes, sure, fine. But we're not making this a daily thing.”

“That's fair.” Cas agreed. “It's probably not very healthy.”

He went to grab his wallet and keys before Sam could start his speech on the nutritional value of green things, and Eileen snatched her water bottle off the library table as they all got up to leave.

---

Dean gave up on letting them choose the music after snickering and requesting “Friday” by Rebecca Black for the third time in a row.

(It wasn't even Friday?)

---

Dean stepped out and closed Baby’s door in the parking lot of Starbucks an hour later, kicking the loose pieces of gravel on the asphalt for the third time in two days.

“We might as well just live here.” He said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I wouldn't make that offer if I were you, Cas looks like he’d be totally on board.” Sam laughed.

Cas went and stood beside Dean as they started walking towards the building, smiling.

“What?” Dean asked, question genuine and free of all malice.

“Nothing.” Cas answered, smile not faltering.

His eyes revealed nothing but pure devotion for the man he was staring at. A silent promise, one without pressure, that he would be standing there, and Dean could take the leap anytime he wanted.

Dean was slowly inching towards the end of the diving board.

---

“I think I'll just drink my water.”

“Oh that's exciting.” Sam joked. “If I got you a lemon to go with it, would you be able to handle that?”

“Don't talk to me about my drink, when yours is a vivid green puke colour.”

“Hey, at least it actually has a colour. And a flavour at that.”

Dean couldn’t believe those words were coming from the same man who drinks exactly a hundred and one ounces of water a day. (Which, according to Sam, is the recommended amount for males, as stated by the Institute of Medicine.)

(Dean didn’t care.)

“Fine then.” She turned to look at Dean. “Get me the strongest thing on the menu.”

Dean laughed before turning to Cas. “Let's just go get in line before we suffer at the hands of the Leahy like Sam.”

Sam and Eileen went to look for a place where they could all sit again, playfully bickering the entire way.

While he was standing in line with Cas, Dean looked over at his brother, and found him and Eileen sitting at a small table in the corner.

Cas was still helping him learn ASL, so he caught parts of their conversation.

“If Jack is in every drop of rain, do you think he's in your water?” Sam signed, trying to contain his laughter.

Eileen pushed her water away with a look of disgust. “You’re lucky I love you.” She answered back.

“I know I am.”

He watched her silently laugh before turning back to look at Cas.

They really did have it good, didn't they?

“What are you ordering, Dean?”

Dean stood there silently, contemplating. He internally weighed his pros and cons, mind leaving the menu entirely. While there was still a lot of shit he had to work through, (shit he had been actively not working out his entire life), there wasn’t much of a decision to be made.

He would always choose Cas.

“You know what?” He reached out and grasped Cas’s hand firmly. “I was thinking about being less boring. What ingredients do you suggest I try?”

Cas smiled warmly, reaching the crinkled corners of his eyes. “They have a cinnamon flavoured one. That’ll be almost like apple pie.”

“Will it really?” Dean’s tone was dismissive, but there was a smile on his face.

“Yes, Sam told me.“

“Not that I trust Sam’s judgment, but okay, I think I’ll take one of those.”

“I'm going to have a real pumpkin spice latte this time.” Cas seemed very pleased with the aspect of buying something they could make it home, but Dean wasn't going to fault him for it.

The patron in front of them finished ordering, clearing the way for Cas and Dean. The barista from the first time they went caught sight of them and made a face. “Wait a minute. I think I know you two.”

“Yes, we came here yesterday.” Cas helped. “Well, we actually visited twice, but you weren't working the second time.”

“Right... John and John, how could I forget?”

“This time we're ordering for four though.”

“I would like a…” Dean squinted at the menu, looking for the cinnamon flavoured coffee. “‘Cinnamon Dolce Latte.’ And my devilishly handsome friend here will take the pumpkin spice version.”

“And what are the other two drinks and names?”

Dean whispered something in Cas’s ear. “I'll drink the coffee, but I won't budge on this one.”

“That's okay Dean, you’ll get there eventually.” He whispered back.

The barista looked unimpressed with them. Again.

Dean cleared his throat. “Ahem, sorry. The tall one with the stupidly long hair,” he pointed towards Sam, “is getting…” he trailed off before looking to Cas for help.

“I don't know, man. It was something sickly looking. Cold? Green? Possibly tea?”

“And Iced Green Tea Latte?” The barista suggested.

“That's the one. His name is Jimmy.”

“And the lovely lady sitting next to him would like the strongest drink you have. Her name is Robert.”

“Her name is Robert…?” He slowly pointed towards Eileen, sounding unsure of himself.

Or them.

“Yup.” Cas said.

Eileen gave a little wave from across the room.

He gritted his teeth in a very clearly fake smile. “Coming right up.”

They paid for their coffee and picked it up, taking the travel cups across the room and towards Sam and Eileen.

Cas took a sip from his pumpkin spice latte, gleefully smiling. “As much as I like trying different drinks, I think I might start just getting this one. It's my favourite.”

Sam leaned over to Dean, neither one taking their eyes off of Cas. “Should we tell him the drink is seasonal?” He glanced at Sam, before staring back at his partner, whose face was beaming like a literal ray of sunshine.

Dean’s face softened. “Nah. Let’s not ruin his moment.” He took a sip of his cinnamon coffee and damn, it was delicious.

Nothing at all like apple pie, but still delicious.

Cas walked over to him, making eye contact in a silent question. Dean nodded with a small smile, and Cas took his hand.

“I love you.” Cas whispered.

“I love you too.” He whispered back.

They didn’t whisper to hide, and it wasn't because he was ashamed. It was because that exchange was just for them.

Dean leaned in and softly kissed Cas.

Now that was to tell everyone in the shop that his devilishly handsome friend was spoken for.

Slowly, the sun would come out and shine through the stained-glass window, shadow portraying the picture of an angel.

And alright, fine, Dean could admit that he enjoyed the peppermint mocha.

He thought about it for a moment, before giving a light chuckle, realising something.

“What?” Cas asked, turning to look at him with a soft smile resting on his face.

“Nothing.” Dean whispered, squeezing Cas’s hand in his. He took a sip from his coffee, relishing in the warm and cozy flavour enrapturing his tongue.

He was only thinking that maybe, just maybe,

Cas had changed him too.

---

Bonus Epilogue:

Dean held the glass door open for the other three, and they all walked out onto the asphalt, laughing, and making their way towards Baby.

The street lamp overhead flickered, and all four of them froze.

“Did anyone happen to get the salted caramel macchiato?” Dean whispered.

---

-This fic on Ao3 (Kudos and comments would be greatly appreciated.)

-Writing Tag

-Ao3

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[tirednotflirting]

happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time

a day late on getting this here but!!! some bday jalex i wrote for @reveriesofawriter​‘s bday! sticking to our all taylor is jalex brand, it’s a 22 fic :) 

kinda fits within the marble mansion wus writing universe that my pretty venom fic is in if you want more of these boys (they’re quite sweet i think)

here this is on ao3 if that’s more ur jam x

Alex is a planner. 

Early on, being a frontman meant he was the first person anyone trying to coordinate band things reached out to, and as time went on, he embraced the role. He likes organizing and keeping track of the who and when and where of it all. He likes the sticky notes and his planner and the dry-erase board he keeps on his fridge for lists. He likes knowing what is coming next.

Alex never meant to fall in love with his best friend. He never planned on Jack.

They’ve reached the point where they should probably have an adult conversation about whatever it is that’s going on between them. Honestly they probably reached that point half a decade ago, but Alex knows neither of them was ready for it then. He wonders if they’re really both ready now. He knows he is. But it scares him a little to think about what happens if the other involved party isn’t.

That conversation and what it might sound like is what Alex is thinking about as he watches the end of the sunset over the desert from the edge of the pool at the house they’re renting. He lets a wine glass dangle from his fingers, the last few sips of his pink wine swirling around the bottom. His feet slowly swing in the warm water to avoid splashing over the edge. For someone whose job it is to come up with words for feelings, he finds himself struggling with where to even begin. He wonders if that should feel significant.

He’s draining the last of his wine when he hears the back door slide open and feet pad over the stone in his direction. Just as he’s about to question who’s come to join him, the visitor sits behind him and legs drop to frame his body. Alex leans back into Jack’s chest and breathes in the scent of his cologne mixing with the nighttime air. Jack’s arms wrap around Alex and the mess of thoughts trying to piece together the conversation to be had word by word fades off to the back of Alex’s mind.

“What are you doing out here?” Jack asks, his lips brushing against Alex’s neck. Probably against his tattoo. Jack’s always particularly fond of pressing his lips there.

“Just finishing my wine,” Alex says, and lifts the empty glass as evidence. “Wanted to watch the sunset, too. Don’t think I’m ever going to want to say goodbye to this view.”

“You should get a house out here someday,” Jack says as he rocks them back and forth a little. Alex leans further into his chest. “This place has your vibes and the stars look really sick out here.”

Alex smiles at Jack thinking of his astronomy habits. “I like the way you think,” he agrees before turning to stand. “Is it time we go in and join the pregame?” 

Jack lifts a hand to be helped up and elects to keep holding Alex’s hand as they head in the direction of the door. “Why do you think I came out to find you?”

“I’m sorry,” Alex says as they approach the door, a blush painting across his cheeks. “Was just a little bit stuck in my head, trying to figure something out. Didn’t mean to leave the birthday boy waiting.”

Jack smiles and drops Alex’s hand before he reaches for the door handle. They’re in the desert in June, but Alex immediately misses the warmth. The two of them so easily gravitate physically toward one another when they’re together but they don’t hold hands in group settings. The way Alex wishes they did starts the spiral of words again. “Let me know if you need any help figuring whatever it is out?” Jack says as a worried look takes over his features.

Alex never wants to worry him, so he drops a hand to Jack’s back to guide him inside. He lets his answer to Jack’s question mix into a smile. Others in the living room grab Jack for shots. He shoots Alex a look as a lime is placed between his fingers; Alex points in the direction of the stairs and mouths need to change as he heads off. A smaller smile pulls at Jack’s lips as he nods and turns the rest of the group whining for him to join in. 

Alex takes a deep breath before making his way out of the room and only lifts his brows to acknowledge the knowing look from Rian as he climbs the stairs.

*

The club is loud. Alex isn’t sure why he always expects them not to be, but the sounds in his environment accompanied by the buzzing in his mind is almost overwhelming. 

He’s just grabbed another drink and when he gets back to the table their group has claimed for the night, Jack is sitting on the tabletop, his legs swinging as he talks to a couple of girls. Alex smirks as he watches Jack lift up the birthday sash someone had shown up with for him before they left the house (it’s pink and says I’m 21 Today! in sequins). The girls laugh before they wave and disappear into the crowd. Jack turns and his eyes brighten when they fall to Alex.

He scoots closer to where Alex sits and leans in. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing at the cup Alex has just come back with. 

Alex raises the drink in front of his face and frowns as his tipsy mind forgets whatever the drink was called. “Uh, pink?”

“Lemme try,” Jack says and plucks the cup from between Alex’s fingers. Alex hadn’t planned to argue with the request but he can practically hear Jack’s voice reciting the statement Alex has heard probably hundreds of times over the years: You can’t say no during birthweek.

Jack takes a sip and then leaves the cup beside him on the table. He nods thoughtfully for a moment before leaning back in so Alex can hear him. “You’re right, it tastes very pink.”

Alex laughs but before he can respond Jack is moving to sink into the seat beside him and his head drops to Alex’s shoulder. “Are clubs busier than they used to be? Feel like I can’t breathe in here,” he whines. Alex agrees, though he was ready to just blame it on their age. “Where are Rian and Zack?”

“They were talking to some girls at the bar, I think,” Alex explains. “Rian told one of them he’s a drummer and she basically melted, it was hilarious.”

“You think anyone in here has even heard an All Time Low song before?” Jack asks, his tone indicating he’s reached the kind of happy drunk where every thought that comes to mind has to leave his lips. 

“Maybe ‘Dear Maria’?” Alex offers as he drops his arm to rest against Jack’s back. His fingers trace lazy patterns against the soft fabric of his t-shirt. Jack hums but he doesn’t sound convinced.

Jack nuzzles his face into Alex’s neck and Alex hears him sigh. “Hey Alex?”

“Yeah?” Alex replies while his eyes track one of the bright lights circling around the room over the crowd on a dance floor.

Jack lifts his head up and throws Alex big brown puppy eyes. He can tell Jack’s about to ask him something and before he’s even heard the question he already knows his answer will be yes. He’s never been able to say no to Jack. 

“Can we leave?”

Alex laughs. “Thought birthweek had no time for quitters?” he jokingly asks, recalling something Jack yelled across the room at Zack when he tried turning down shots the night before.

“Please?” Jack asks. “It’s loud and I want a snack.”

“Anything for the birthday boy,” Alex replies with a nod. Jack smiles again at the response. “Thought I saw a diner down the road. Late night breakfast?”

“God, you’re the best.”

Jack slides out of the booth as Alex reaches for the jacket he shed shortly after they arrived. While they head toward the doors that lead out to the street, Alex sends a message to the group text (The BoyDay Boys) to let the crew know they’re headed off.

The nighttime air is cool when they step out onto the street. Alex can’t remember which direction they’re meant to head so he pauses once they’re out of the way of the entrance to the club and pulls out his phone again to figure out where they’re going. 

Another cool breeze blows down the street and Jack leans in closer to Alex’s side in response. It’s a frequent habit of his, the way he’s always trying to share Alex’s warmth. If Alex were a little more tipsy he probably would just wrap his arms around Jack’s waist as he leads them in the direction of the diner he’s successfully located. But he’s a little bit too self-aware for that at the moment so he elects to let Jack continue to lean into his side as they head down the street. 

They pass couples walking in the opposite direction, their fingers tangled or lips pressing together without a care in the world. Alex finds he feels something in the realm of jealousy, though he’s not sure that’s the right thing to call it. Loneliness, maybe? He knows he should just say something, just see if there’s any chance at all that Jack feels the same way about figuring out what the hell they are. But it’s been so easy to just teeter the line of something for as long as they have. Alex doesn’t want to scare him away by considering the idea of throwing a label on it. Every time he explains it to Rian like that when he asks, Alex is told he’s being ridiculous and have you seen the way he looks at you, Alex?, but the fear in the back of his mind won’t budge.

The line they tightrope across is confusing, Alex thinks. But even so, he’s not unhappy. Maybe this is just the way they’re meant to be. Confusing but happy. Alex could be okay with that.

It’s a short walk to the diner and Jack chats to Alex most of the way there about some party he went to the previous week. There had been a petting zoo for some unknown reason. Alex listens to Jack describe the animals he got to pet and the kitten that tried stealing some of his White Claw. Soon enough they reach the door and push through to inside, a tiny bell jingling over their heads as they enter. 

Someone behind the counter tells them they can seat themselves, that they’ll come find them in a minute for their drink orders. Jack wanders to a booth in the back of the room and Alex follows him. He waits to let Jack pick a side and slides into the one opposite him. A clock on the wall tells Alex it’s just past midnight, meaning Jack’s actual birthday has just finished. The celebrations should continue for another day or two.

A waitress comes to take their drink orders and they ask for a couple waters and a couple coffees and then they’re alone again. Jack squints his eyes down at the menu while Alex glances around the diner, ignoring the butterflies stirring whenever their knees knock together below the table and neither of them make any effort to move. 

The entire scene has waves of nostalgia crashing all around Alex. It’s a pretty regular event during Jack’s birthday celebrations that he and Alex slip away from the rest of the group to catch a moment of something more tranquil during all the crazy of the week-long party. 

It had become something Alex looked forward to every year. Usually when Jack’s birthday fell during a break from touring or between cycles, they would just go for a drive. Jack would find whatever couch or bed Alex had passed out on and pull him from sleep to go watch the sunrise or the sunset (his body clock was always thrown completely off balance during birthweek). 

He’d usually want to go to the beach. Jack would play navigator and call out directions to whichever beach involved the least amount of traffic to get to, in a voice rough both from sleep and from screaming along to Top 40 hits in karaoke bars and clubs around LA. Once there, they would walk all the way out to the water and let little waves splash against their ankles as the sun rose higher and higher or sunk lower and lower. Eventually Jack would smile and nod toward the Pacific and sigh a deep breath of salty air and that would be the cue that he was satisfied with the experience. They usually would end up at a diner like the one they’re at right now, sipping coffee with tired eyes and laughing over pancakes.

It’s probably a two hour drive to the coast from where they currently sit but if Jack had asked to go to the beach, Alex would have gotten him there without a second thought.

Jack moves so their long legs are all tangled together below the table, and it breaks Alex out of the nostalgic place he’d been transported to for a moment. He looks up to meet Jack’s tired, happy gaze. Alex raises his eyebrows in a silent question and a gleeful smile pulls across Jack’s cheeks.

“Do you think they’d put sprinkles in my pancakes if I tell them it’s my birthday?”

That’s when it hits Alex head on, like a dart hitting the bullseye. They walk a tightrope but there’s always been a net to catch them if need be just below their feet the whole time. The look Rian’s been trying to convince him to see for years is staring back from the other side of the booth, and it says everything in the most plain but beautiful way possible. It’s the same smile Jack would give to the Pacific just after the sun had set over the city of stars. Alex breaks into a quiet laugh and wonders if he’s ever not been in love with this sunshine of a boy sitting in front of him.

(They do put sprinkles in the pancakes. Rainbow ones. And add whipped cream and a candle too.)

*

It’s close to 1AM by the time they pay the check and head back out into the early morning desert air. They had enough water and coffee that they’re pretty much sober now. The moon shines bright down onto them as they stand in front of the diner, unsure of where to head next. 

“Want to take a walk?” Alex asks while pointing down a more quiet part of the street in the opposite direction they came from. 

“Sounds nice,” Jack agrees, and motions for Alex to lead the way.

They start down the sidewalk and let the nighttime noises play as their soundtrack for a few minutes. Jack breaks the silence to tell the story of something his mom told him about when he called her a couple days ago and at some point in the middle of the tale, he reaches for Alex’s hand and threads their fingers together so their joined hands swing between them. Alex continues listening as he looks down, and there’s some tiny part of his brain that tries to start making another set of pros and cons lists, but then he shakes the thought away and stops walking. 

Jack glances back with a confused look when he feels the pull on his arm. “What is it, Al?”

Alex lets out a sigh as he looks back and forth between their hands and the look on Jack’s face. The words fall from his lips before he can even process them fully. “Jack, I really like you.”

The look of confusion fades into something more stunned as Jack takes a step closer to him. “What?” he asks in a quiet voice, like he’s worried that speaking too loudly might shatter the moment that Alex’s confession just created.

“I really like you,” Alex says and reaches over to pull Jack in at the waist. “I like you in the want to show you off and kiss you until our friends groan and introduce you as my boyfriend at parties kind of way. I want to hold your hand when we walk back inside after watching the sunset like the cheesy idiots we are.”

For a moment he just watches Jack nod before a smile brighter than the full moon overhead pulls across Jack's face. He lets his arms wrap around Alex's neck and pulls him close enough that their foreheads touch. “I like you, too. So much. I might love you, I think, but that feels like a really big word,” Jack says back, in a voice still just above a whisper. “I could never come up with the words to say that until right now.”

Alex doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until Jack moves to cup Alex’s cheek, his thumb running across his cheekbone just in time to swipe away a tear. “God, we’re stupid. You’d think we of all people would know to just let the words come to us.”

Jack shakes his head and pouts. “Hey, you’re the veteran songwriter here. I'm still new enough to this that I have an excuse.”

“Shut up,” Alex laughs, and then he leans closer to press their lips together. Jack adjusts to cup his hand around Alex's other cheek as Alex's grip on his waist tightens. It’s not even fireworks and confetti like Alex had imagined it would be. They laugh against each other’s lips between kisses and it’s just them. When Alex pulls away and tucks his face into Jack's neck, his lips pressing lazily against the triangles inked into Jack's skin, he feels peace. Holding Jack feels like coming home or a deep breath of the cool ocean air just after sunset. He feels like what Alex always imagined love to feel like. 

*

Somehow they still beat everyone else back to the house. Their giggles echo off the halls as they kick their shoes off before heading up the stairs, one of them stopping the other every so often for another kiss.

They make it up the stairs eventually and Alex drags Jack in the direction of his room. Alex only whines for a moment when Jack pulls away because Well, you want me to brush my teeth, don’t you? When Jack returns Alex is changed and going through his own routine in the bathroom. When he glances out through the open door to the bedroom, Jack has already claimed his side of the bed and is looking at him across the room, a lazy smile pulling across his face.

“What?” Alex asks as he turns off the tap and shuffles over to lean against the doorway.

Jack shrugs. “Nothing.”

“What’s that look for then?” Alex asks. Jack sits facing towards him, his temple resting against the headboard. He’s changed into sweats and a tank Alex is pretty sure was swiped from his own closet. It’s stretched and worn enough that it’s falling off of Jack’s tattooed shoulder. If Alex could pick one image to look at for the rest of his life, this one would certainly be in the running.

“I think I’m just glad we kind of figured this out a bit,” Jack replies. 

“Well, I’m pretty sure if I went another day without saying something, Rian would have threatened to tell you himself and I think we’re just a little bit too old to be having our friends communicate our feelings for us.”

“Yeah, maybe a little bit,” Jack laughs as he slides beneath the sheets. Alex hits the light in the bathroom and pads across the room. He hears the front door open and close downstairs followed by laughter, signalling the rest of their crew has arrived home. As he listens to the quiet conversations happening on the first floor, he crawls into bed and drops his head on the pillow beside where Jack rests with his hand holding up his head. Alex drops an arm around Jack’s waist and pulls him closer.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to sleep when I feel like I’m dreaming,” Alex says while Jack turns to shut the lamp off.

“Alex, I adore you, but that was the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said and your exhaustion is showing,” Jack says with a laugh before pressing his lips to Alex’s temple. “I’ll still be right here in the morning.”

“Will you remind me of all of the cheesy things I said tonight?”

“For as long as you’ll let me,” Jack replies. He drops his head against the pillow and smiles up at Alex.

“I’m holding you to that,” Alex says. He presses a kiss to the tattoos on Jack’s shoulder he’d been admiring from the doorway before moving to settle his head against his chest. 

As he lets his tired eyes fall shut while settling against Jack, Alex is surprised that the swirling mix of words in his head he’s become accustomed to isn’t there. He’s used to his mind still trying desperately to plan out whatever needs to come next even as he falls asleep. But as Jack tucks an arm around his waist and drifts closer to sleep, Alex decides maybe he’s alright with not knowing what comes next so long as they stay like this.

*

[tswiftdaily]

In the 2010s, she went from country superstar to pop titan and broke records with chart-topping albums and blockbuster tours. Now Swift is using her industry clout to fight for artists’ rights and foster the musical community she wished she had coming up.

One evening in late-October, before she performed at a benefit concert at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, Taylor Swift’s dressing room became -- as it often does -- an impromptu summit of music’s biggest names. Swift was there to take part in the American Cancer Society’s annual We Can Survive concert alongside Billie Eilish, Lizzo, Camila Cabello and others, and a few of the artists on the lineup came by to visit.

Eilish, along with her mother and her brother/collaborator, Finneas O’Connell, popped in to say hello -- the first time she and Swift had met. Later, Swift joined the exclusive club of people who have seen Marshmello without his signature helmet when the EDM star and his manager stopped by.

“Two dudes walked in -- I didn’t know which one was him,” recalls Swift a few weeks later, sitting on a lounge chair in the backyard of a private Beverly Hills residence following a photo shoot. Her momentary confusion turned into a pang of envy. “It’s really smart! Because he’s got a life, and he can get a house that doesn’t have to have a paparazzi-proof entrance.” She stops to adjust her gray sweatshirt dress and lets out a clipped laugh.

Swift, who will celebrate her 30th birthday on Dec. 13, has been impossibly famous for nearly half of her lifetime. She was 16 when she released her self-titled debut album in 2006, and 20 when her second album, Fearless, won the Grammy Award for album of the year in 2010, making her the youngest artist to ever receive the honor. As the decade comes to a close, Swift is one of the most accomplished musical acts of all time: 37.3 million albums sold, according to Nielsen Music; 95 entries on the Billboard Hot 100 (including five No. 1s); 23 Billboard Music Awards; 12 Country Music Association Awards; 10 Grammys; and five world tours.

She also finishes the decade in a totally different realm of the music world from where she started. Swift’s crossover from country to pop -- hinted at on 2012’s Red and fully embraced on 2014’s 1989 -- reflected a mainstream era in which genres were blended with little abandon, where artists with roots in country, folk and trap music could join forces without anyone raising eyebrows. (See: Swift’s top 20 hit “End Game,” from 2017’s reputation, which featured Ed Sheeran and Future.)

Swift’s new album, Lover, released in August, is both a warm break from the darkness of reputation -- which was created during a wave of negative press generated by Swift’s public clash with Kanye West and Kim Kardashian-West -- as well as an amalgam of all her stylistic explorations through the years, from dreamy synth-pop to hushed country. “The skies were opening up in my life,” says Swift of the album, which garnered three Grammy nominations, including song of the year for the title track.

She recorded Lover after the Reputation Stadium Tour broke the record for the highest-grossing U.S. tour late last year. In 2020, Swift will embark on Lover Fest, a run of stadium dates that will feature a hand-picked lineup of artists (as yet unannounced) and allow Swift more time off from the road. “This is a year where I have to be there for my family -- there’s a lot of question marks throughout the next year, so I wanted to make sure that I could go home,” says Swift, likely referencing her mother’s cancer diagnosis, which inspired the Lover heart-wrencher “Soon You’ll Get Better.”

Now, however, Swift finds herself in a different highly publicized dispute. This time it’s with Scott Borchetta, the head of her former label, Big Machine Records, and Scooter Braun, the manager-mogul whose Ithaca Holdings acquired Big Machine Label Group and its master recordings, which include Swift’s six pre-Lover albums, in June. Upon news of the sale, Swift wrote in a Tumblr post that it was her “worst case scenario,” accusing Braun of “bullying” her throughout her career due to his connections with West. She maintains today that she was never given the opportunity to buy her masters outright. (On Tumblr, she wrote that she was offered the chance to “earn” back the masters to one of her albums for each new album she turned in if she re-signed with Big Machine; Borchetta disputed this characterization, saying she had the opportunity to acquire her masters in exchange for re-signing with the label for a “length of time” -- 10 more years, according to screenshots of legal documents posted on the Big Machine website.)

Swift has said that she intends to rerecord her first six albums next year -- starting next November, when she says she’s contractually able to -- in order to regain control of her recordings. But the back-and-forth appears to be nowhere near over: Last month, Swift alleged that Borchetta and Braun were blocking her from performing her past hits at the American Music Awards or using them in an upcoming Netflix documentary -- claims Big Machine characterized as “false information” in a response that did not get into specifics. (Swift ultimately performed the medley she had planned.) In the weeks following this interview, Braun said he was open to “all possibilities” in finding a “resolution,” and Billboard sources say that includes negotiating a sale. Swift remains interested in buying her masters, though the price could be a sticking point, given her rerecording plans, the control she has over the licensing of her music for film and TV, and the market growth since Braun’s acquisition.

However it plays out, the battle over her masters is the latest in a series of moves that has turned Swift into something of an advocate for artists’ rights -- and made her a cause that everyone from Halsey to Elizabeth Warren has rallied behind. From 2014 to 2017, Swift withheld her catalog from Spotify to protest the streaming company’s compensation rates, saying in a 2014 interview, “There should be an inherent value placed on art. I didn’t see that happening, perception-wise, when I put my music on Spotify.” In 2015, ahead of the launch of Apple Music, Swift wrote an open letter criticizing Apple for its plan to not pay royalties during the three-month free trial it was set to offer listeners; the company announced a new policy within 24 hours. Most recently, when she signed a new global deal with Universal Music Group in 2018, Swift (who is now on Republic Records) said one of the conditions of her contract was that UMG share proceeds from any sale of its Spotify equity with its roster of artists -- and make them nonrecoupable against those artists’ earnings.

During a wide-ranging conversation, Billboard’s Woman of the Decade expresses hope that she can help make the lives of creators a little easier in the years to come -- and a belief that her behind-the-scenes strides will be as integral to her legacy as her biggest singles. “New artists and producers and writers need work, and they need to be likable and get booked in sessions, and they can’t make noise -- but if I can, then I’m going to,” promises Swift. This is where being impossibly famous can be a very good thing. “I know that it seems like I’m very loud about this,” she says, “but it’s because someone has to be.”

While watching some of your performances this year -- like Saturday Night Live and NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert -- I was struck by how focused you seemed, like there were no distractions getting in the way of what you were trying to say.

That’s a really wonderful way of looking at this phase of my life and my music. I’ve spent a lot of time recalibrating my life to make it feel manageable. Because there were some years there where I felt like I didn’t quite know what exactly to give people and what to hold back, what to share and what to protect. I think a lot of people go through that, especially in the last decade. I broke through pre-social media, and then there was this phase where social media felt fun and casual and quirky and safe. And then it got to the point where everyone has to evaluate their relationship with social media. So I decided that the best thing I have to offer people is my music. I’m not really here to influence their fashion or their social lives. That has bled through into the live part of what I do.

Meanwhile, you’ve found a way to interact with your fans in this very pure way -- on your Tumblr page.

Tumblr is the last place on the internet where I feel like I can still make a joke because it feels small, like a neighborhood rather than an entire continent. We can kid around -- they literally drag me. It’s fun. That’s a real comfort zone for me. And just like anything else, I need breaks from it sometimes. But when I do participate in that space, it’s always in a very inside-joke, friend vibe. Sometimes, when I open Twitter, I get so overwhelmed that I just immediately close it. I haven’t had Twitter on my phone in a while because I don’t like to have too much news. Like, I follow politics, and that’s it. But I don’t like to follow who has broken up with who, or who wore an interesting pair of shoes. There’s only so much bandwidth my brain can really have.

You’ve spoken in recent interviews about the general expectations you’ve faced, using phrases like “They’ve wanted to see this” and “They hated me for this.” Who is “they”? Is it social media or disparaging think pieces or --

It’s sort of an amalgamation of all of it. People who aren’t active fans of your music, who like one song but love to hear who has been canceled on Twitter. I’ve had several upheavals of somehow not being what I should be. And this happens to women in music way more than men. That’s why I get so many phone calls from new artists out of the blue -- like, “Hey, I’m getting my first wave of bad press, I’m freaking out, can I talk to you?” And the answer is always yes! I’m talking about more than 20 people who have randomly reached out to me. I take it as a compliment because it means that they see what has happened over the course of my career, over and over again.

Did you have someone like that to reach out to?

Not really, because my career has existed in lots of different neighborhoods of music. I had so many mentors in country music. Faith Hill was wonderful. She would reach out to me and invite me over and take me on tour, and I knew that I could talk to her. Crossing over to pop is a completely different world. Country music is a real community, and in pop I didn’t see that community as much. Now there is a bit of one between the girls in pop -- we all have each other’s numbers and text each other -- but when I first started out in pop it was very much you versus you versus you. We didn’t have a network, which is weird because we can help each other through these moments when you just feel completely isolated.

Do you feel like those barriers are actively being broken down now?

God, I hope so. I also hope people can call it out, [like] if you see a Grammy prediction article, and it’s just two women’s faces next to each other and feels a bit gratuitous. No one’s going to start out being perfectly educated on the intricacies of gender politics. The key is that people are trying to learn, and that’s great. No one’s going to get it perfect, but, God, please try.

At this point, who is your sounding board, creatively and professionally?

From a creative standpoint, I’ve been writing alone a lot more. I’m good with being alone, with thinking alone. When I come up with a marketing idea for the Lover tour, the album launch, the merch, I’ll go right to my management company that I’ve put together. I think a team is the best way to be managed. Just from my experience, I don’t think that this overarching, one-person-handles-my-career thing was ever going to work for me. Because that person ends up kind of being me who comes up with most of the ideas, and then I have an amazing team that facilitates those ideas.

The behind-the-scenes work is different for every phase of my career that I’m in. Putting together the festival shows that we’re doing for Lover is completely different than putting together the Reputation Stadium Tour. Putting together the reputation launch was so different than putting together the 1989 launch. So we really do attack things case by case, where the creative first informs everything else.

You’ve spoken before about how meaningful the reputation tour’s success was. What did it represent?

That tour was something that I wanted to immortalize in the Netflix special that we did because the album was a story, but it almost was like a story that wasn’t fully realized until you saw it live. It was so cool to hear people leaving the show being like, “I understand it now. I fully get it now.” There are a lot of red herrings and bait-and-switches in the choices that I’ll make with albums, because I want people to go and explore the body of work. You can never express how you feel over the course of an album in a single, so why try?

That seems especially true of your last three albums or so.

“Shake It Off” is nothing like the rest of 1989. It’s almost like I feel so much pressure with a first single that I don’t want the first single to be something that makes you feel like you’ve figured out what I’ve made on the rest of the project. I still truly believe in albums, whatever form you consume them in -- if you want to stream them or buy them or listen to them on vinyl. And I don’t think that makes me a staunch purist. I think that that is a strong feeling throughout the music industry. We’re running really fast toward a singles industry, but you got to believe in something. I still believe that albums are important.

The music industry has become increasingly global during the past decade. Is reaching new markets something you think about?

Yeah, and I’m always trying to learn. I’m learning from everyone. I’m learning when I go see Bruce Springsteen or Madonna do a theater show. And I’m learning from new artists who are coming out right now, just seeing what they’re doing and thinking, “That’s really cool.” You need to keep your influences broad and wide-ranging, and my favorite people who make music have always done that. I got to work with Andrew Lloyd Webber on the Cats movie, and Andrew will walk through the door and be like, “I’ve just seen this amazing thing on TikTok!” And I’m like, “You are it! You are it!” Because you cannot look at what quote-unquote “the kids are doing” and roll your eyes. You have to learn.

Have you explored TikTok at all?

I only see them when they’re posted to Tumblr, but I love them! I think that they’re hilarious and amazing. Andrew says that they’ve made musicals cool again, because there’s a huge musical facet to TikTok. [He’s] like, “Any way we can do that is good.”

How do you see your involvement in the business side of your career progressing in the next decade? You seem like someone who could eventually start a label or be more hands-on with signing artists.

I do think about it every once in a while, but if I was going to do it, I would need to do it with all of my energy. I know how important that is, when you’ve got someone else’s career in your hands, and I know how it feels when someone isn’t generous.

You’ve served as an ambassador of sorts for artists, especially recently -- staring down streaming services over payouts, increasing public awareness about the terms of record deals.

We have a long way to go. I think that we’re working off of an antiquated contractual system. We’re galloping toward a new industry but not thinking about recalibrating financial structures and compensation rates, taking care of producers and writers.

We need to think about how we handle master recordings, because this isn’t it. When I stood up and talked about this, I saw a lot of fans saying, “Wait, the creators of this work do not own their work, ever?” I spent 10 years of my life trying rigorously to purchase my masters outright and was then denied that opportunity, and I just don’t want that to happen to another artist if I can help it. I want to at least raise my hand and say, “This is something that an artist should be able to earn back over the course of their deal -- not as a renegotiation ploy -- and something that artists should maybe have the first right of refusal to buy.” God, I would have paid so much for them! Anything to own my work that was an actual sale option, but it wasn’t given to me.

Thankfully, there’s power in writing your music. Every week, we get a dozen synch requests to use “Shake It Off” in some advertisement or “Blank Space” in some movie trailer, and we say no to every single one of them. And the reason I’m rerecording my music next year is because I do want my music to live on. I do want it to be in movies, I do want it to be in commercials. But I only want that if I own it.

Do you know how long that rerecording process will take?

I don’t know! But it’s going to be fun, because it’ll feel like regaining a freedom and taking back what’s mine. When I created [these songs], I didn’t know what they would grow up to be. Going back in and knowing that it meant something to people is actually a really beautiful way to celebrate what the fans have done for my music.

Ten years ago, on the brink of the 2010s, you were about to turn 20. What advice would you give yourself if you could go back in time?

Oh, God -- I wouldn’t give myself any advice. I would have done everything exactly the same way. Because even the really tough things I’ve gone through taught me things that I never would have learned any other way. I really appreciate my experience, the ups and downs. And maybe that seems ridiculously Zen, but … I’ve got my friends, who like me for the right reasons. I’ve got my family. I’ve got my boyfriend. I’ve got my fans. I’ve got my cats.